


Variable Mannequin

by sailtheplains



Category: BioShock, BioShock Infinite
Genre: Alternate Universe, Big Daddies, Big Sisters, Elizabeth's tears, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Little Sisters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 21:33:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 123,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12117663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailtheplains/pseuds/sailtheplains
Summary: Because I wanted to write about the Adventures of Liz and Booker, father-daughter dream team as they explore other universes (instead of Booker dying) and also write about a Little Sister who becomes aware again (a sorely neglected topic in-game).-------------------“Right, got it. I’ll find one of these little sub-pods and meet you there. Looks like some of them are still intact. Do you have one of these shortwave units from the bathyspheres? I can cut it with a signal boost—might help us keep in contact. Don’t know how it will do out in the ocean though.”“So, try not to die until I find you,” Booker surmised. “Story of my life.”Elizabeth laughed on her side. “Quite literally.”"What?" Jack inquired curiously.“Smartass.” Booker bit back an annoyed smirk, ignoring Jack's question by shaking his head silently as he heard Elizabeth beep out.





	1. Dollhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating jump for part 9, 17  
> \---------------------------------  
> For now: Jack Ryan meet Booker Dewitt  
> \---------------------------------

Caper had had parents at one time, she supposed. She could no longer remember them. That had been in the Before time. Before _Adam_. Before the hunger, the need, the _thirst_ for it would drive her out of hiding to gulp down clots of blood. Sometimes, Mister Bubbles came with her. Sometimes it was King Arthur. Sometimes it was Lady Gearheart or Miss January, Miss Rosie, Princess Brave. They all felt different, even if they looked the same. Their colors matched their word eventually. It helped her tell who the angels were.

The knowledge was sort of floating in a fuzzy haze. 

_Caper._

She stared at the floor, a broken lamp was flickering around her some where. 

_Adam_ , it whispered in her belly. The need for it, looming up to swallow her.

_Caper._

“That’s me,” she muttered. And she breathed. 

Hearing her own voice seemed to help. Caper sat up, leaning back against a half-rotted cabinet. She wasn’t wearing any shoes. Her trousers were grimy, stiff with mud, blood and a mess of other things best not considered. Her shirt was some kind of patient scrub, like what one might wear in a hospital. Her hands and feet were covered in bruises and scratches and scars. She curled her ankles up to herself. The flesh was clammy, it hardly felt like her own. She took another deep breath and looked around.

She was in some sort of surgeryroom. All white tile and grimy metal equipment, covered in rust or blood or both. What was she doing here? The last time she remembered blood on walls, she was in the sewer with Tyla. What had happened to Tyla?

That got her going, putting her hands on the exam bed next to her and hauling herself up. She seemed taller than she remembered. Caper poked her cheeks. They felt fuzzy and strange, numb. 

And then she saw her reflection. 

_I’m not five. I’m twelve._

She cast around her, spotting her blood-covered injector like some sort of macabre toy. _I’m twelve. When was I five?_

Had she ever been five? She couldn’t seem to recall. What _did_ she remember?

 _Caper_. Her name. Her name was Caper. And she was twelve. She knew because puberty had come upon her and they intended to start conditioning her to fight. She would be a knight like Lady Rosie or Ser Bubbles. 

Caper picked up her blood injector, walking in ankle-high water, peering around a corner. A camera cast its piercing eye over her but then passed as if she were invisible. Her codes were everyone she’d ever drawn from, everyone who knew Adam. Also, this wasn’t just a sterile room—it appeared to be a morgue. She kept to the shadows. Splicers were vicious and would come after her immediately without Ser Bubbles around. The angels were quieter, waiting their turn to die. But there were no knights around. So she had to remember to look around. She’d always been so small.

Then puberty came with the blood and Papa Suchong took her to the lab with a couple of the other girls. But the path from there to here, to this wet morgue—that was darkness. What had happened? She couldn’t recall. But she was twelve now. Caper was twelve. 

She’d have to protect herself. Whatever had happened, wherever she was—there was no one to help her. There was a large revolver on one of the exam beds but it was scorched and the chambers were flooded with water and rust. She left it, picking up a knife instead. Her reflection winked back at her from the glass of a cabinet. 

Her eyes were green, glowing faintly—but not the flashlights she remembered. Just faint, almost warm. 

The corpse she found was still fresh. It was near the entrance to the morgue. It had been shot, peppered with bullets, so she definitely didn’t kill him. Neither had Bubbles. Big Sisters never really used guns on the rare occasion that Caper had run into one. Mister Bubbles didn’t need to.

The smell of Adam was all over the corpse. It was a compulsion she was nearly helpless to, automatically stabbing into the swollen corpse, watching pus and blood drain out as she drew it into the chamber. She eyed it greedily. Her lips had gone dry and cracked.

_Adam_

She slurped it down, choking on a cough of clotted blood. Strange, she couldn’t remember ever doing this before—even though she _knew_ she had. 

_They made me a Little Sister._

Had her parents sold her? Given her up? Or had she been kidnapped like other girls? Did Little Sisters suddenly just wake up like this one day? No, no—that couldn’t be. Suchong would have a tight leash on his little Adam factories. Suchong, Fontaine, Tenenbaum: they made, kept and groomed Little Sisters. The adults let the Adam _eat_ them inside. 

Was there anything left of whoever she’d been? Caper? 

She looked at her scarred legs and arms, the blood coating her injector and her hands and mouth. At the horrid morgue and the flooding of water because Rapture was under the sea, wasn’t it. Yes. Rapture. No escape. 

Unless she could get a Big Sister suit somehow. 

“Smart daddies get spliced at the Garden,” Caper said softly to her injector. 

Gatherer’s Garden—where was a Garden? Caper slid out of the morgue, keeping to the shadows. If she was near the morgue than she must be in the Medical Pavilion. The only other place was the Little Wonders facility but she knew that building better than her injector. She wasn’t there. What if there were Sisters still there though? Maybe she could find out what had happened. 

Slipping out the door was horrible—she didn’t remember everything looking so decrepit. The last seven years were such a blur. What had happened in Rapture? The Eternal Flame crematorium was silent behind her and before her. She tiptoed around the backstairs and headed for Dental. No daddy, no sister—so she would protect herself. She had lots of Adam. She could smell it. She placed her hand, pale and thin and bloody, on the DNA scanner and let it draw the Adam from her. Sparkler and Campfire _(Especially for your little one!)_ then Sneaker to help hide in the shadows. Perfect. That would do for now. Little Sisters were immune to the genetic coding Andrew Ryan used but she wasn’t a Little Sister anymore, right? Better to be safe than dead. 

It felt better to have a bit of protection. She hid in shadows when she heard voices and gunfire until she found a vent. She was just small enough to still be able to use it but it was a tight fit, even for her. She dropped into the Surgery lounge and headed into the Footlight. 

She was starting to feel cold, unusual. She was still soaking wet and her clothes were filthy and half-rotted. It took hours to reach the Kashmir restaurant. At least, it felt like hours. But once she did, she was able to get into another vent and drop into someone’s private room. It looked to be some sort of office. It was well-lit but empty. She huddled by the space heater. It was still on. So someone would be back.

There were wigs and actor makeup and a few logs in the room. She ignored them, sliding out the door and hiding in a corner until a hulking big man passed her. She had to set another on fire so that she could get to the bathysphere station. 

Little Sisters were such a genetic soup that they were the only ones (along with Daddies and Big Sisters) who could travel between the spheres at will. Still, she’d never traveled in one alone. The ocean felt so big above her, crushing down on all of them. Apparently, on the surface, there was no water. There was wide open air and clouds. She’d never seen clouds. Just pictures.

Slicers were waiting for her, slobbering at the Adam nestled in her belly. They could smell her but Sneaker kept them from seeing her, so long as she stayed still. She remembered learning about plasmids. They were last resorts in case Daddy got hurt. She learned to slip into the shadows, flitting away on her toes. 

She’d been a Little Sister. So how was she not a Little Sister anymore? Self-awareness? Her mouth tasted like pennies. Her tongue was swollen with salt and blood. It was a relief to slip into a vent and hide from prying angel eyes. 

Angels had always been kind and warm. Always. Why was it different now? Why could she see their red eyes on the outside?

Caper drug her fingers into her filthy hair, to remind herself she was still alive. A few tugs hard on her own hair to get her going again. Have to hide. Have to hide. 

_Three too many. Three is too many!_

“You and me and the Devil makes three….” Caper murmured softly. Someone else knew the words. She only knew those ones. “Gonna need another lovin baby....”

“Excuse me, miss?”

Caper whirled around, freezing in place to sink into the shadows. 

There were two men standing not ten feet from her. One had tattoos of chains on his wrists and he was peering at her like like a man who wasn't sure what he was seeing. The other was wearing pinstripes and a vest. Like a proper Robin Hood gangster. They looked alike, in the way men did sometimes. Tall, white skin, brownish hair—that were a lot of dead people like that in Rapture.

But these two were different. Their clothes were in good shape. They did not glow with Adam at all. Except the one with the chains on his wrists. He was something….different. 

“Miss?” said Pinstripes again, gently. He showed her his open palms. “We’re not gonna hurt you. We just have a couple questions.”

“We just got here,” Chained added. “Never even heard of this place, Rapture. But the people we’ve seen so far…” he glanced at Pinstripes, frowning.

The other man knelt down with her, voice still low and calm. “You don’t seem like them.”

Caper gazed at them, the strange men who felt strange. They had strange glows. They didn’t look like the angels but not like the knights either. They were something new and different. With shining real faces and eyes like gemstones. Like Eleanor.

_Who’s Eleanor?_

“They need Adam. Makes them whole again,” Caper managed, looking at Pinstripes’ shoulder under the fringe of her matted hair. 

“What is Adam?” Pinstripes inquired softly.

Caper looked at her belly, still aglow with gold. She rubbed it, smearing the blood caked onto her fingers. “It makes the angel dust taste good. Like medicine.” She showed him her injector.

“What the fuck does—“

“Jack,” Pinstripes cut him off, a touch sharply.

So Chained was Jack. Jack seemed to settle down a bit, snapping his mouth shut. He had a pistol on one hip and he was holding a machine gun against his shoulder, though pointed at the ground. Pinstripes had a shotgun, a pistol in his vest and a rifle slung over his shoulder. He watched her quietly with somber, green eyes. “What’s your name?”

“Caper,” she said, looking up at Jack and then back at Pinstripes. 

“Dewitt, the alarm is going off.” Jack pointed down the hallway with the machine gun. “The camera is searching—someone is down there.”

“Caper, how long have you been in Rapture?” said Dewitt, pinstripe trousers soaked in water and blood. 

“Always been in Rapture,” Caper said, fiddling with her injector. Her shoulders spiked up around her ears, uncomfortable with the scrutiny in his gaze. Afraid it might turn _cold_ and _sterile--_

“What happened to you, Caper?”

She looked at her scarred feet and legs and hands, her clothes that she’d outgrown. “Don’t remember,” she said, because it was true. 

“Dewitt,” Jack warned again. “They’re coming. You hunt people down for a living, right? We gotta go or these dipshits are gonna swamp us.”

“You should come with us, Caper—find somewhere safe to hide.”

Hide. Hide. The only people who could hide were dark people like Fontaine and Tenenbaum and Ryan. There was no hiding from them. The only adults who said they could hide were the same ones who took you into the dark and made you scream.

She took a step back and vanished into the shadows.

“Kid—“

“Booker!” Jack let off a number of shots. Dewitt swore and whirled around to go help him.

Caper ran. They would be dead soon, probably. Most everyone was in this underwater dollhouse.

 

 

 

“You can’t talk to these people—they’re nuts, Dewitt.”

Booker huffed. “How about you let me worry about information-gathering, pal?”

“Yeah, you said you hunt people—why didn’t you just grab the kid?”

“Because she’s clearly been on the receiving end of _something_. Maybe this Adam shit they keep going on about.” Booker drug his fingers through his hair. “We need information.”

“Like what?”

 _”Anything,_ mostly," Booker rumbled, starting to sound agitated. “Unless you’ve heard of Rapture before now?”

“No,” Jack admitted, glancing away. He shook himself. “Sorry. Got wound up, I guess.”

Booker shrugged and picked up a crowbar. “No worries. Let’s just break open this vending machine thing and we’ll share a pack of cigarettes on it. Okay?”

“Fair enough, Dewitt.” The man came to help him.

At least for that. Booker liked to think he had some pretty steady nerves but he’d _told_ Elizabeth that coming here would be too dangerous. But this? Maybe Elizabeth really had bitten off more than they could chew this time. 

_Aw, c’mon, Booker! Let’s go explore this world’s version of Columbia! It’s called Rapture!_

But via a fucking plane crash? Jesus fucking Christ. And then to surface and go to those gates and suddenly realizing it was a _Lighthouse_. Like, one of _the_ Lighthouses. He felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Moreso because he couldn’t spy Elizabeth anywhere. He’d searched the wreckage desperately from his vantage point on the stairs. But when someone came out—it was this kid, Jack Wyland. He had chains tattooed on him. The kid didn’t sit quite right. He couldn’t be much older than Elizabeth but he seemed rather calm, compared to normal civilians. 

But the guy was good in a fight and he used that wrench like a goddamn baseball bat. So Booker was happy enough to leave him to it. They watched each other’s backs—like him and—

_Shit, wherever you are, Elizabeth; just don’t be in the wreckage. I don’t think you were, kid, but goddammit._

Would he know if she were dead? Wouldn’t she know if he were? They were the only solid thing that existed to the other—it was hard to think of people as real when you know there are so many versions of yourself out there—to be used, murdered and dumped. How many times had other versions of himself been set-up by the Luteces? But Elizabeth was the one constant. His grown daughter from his own timeline. But mostly, his friend. She looked so much like her mother in the eyes and face. Though she'd taken to his dark hair--

_Bea, if you could see your daughter_

Jesus fucking Christ, he better find her in one piece. He rolled his shoulders, stony expression unflinching. “You know your way around those?” Booker grunted, nodding to the kid as he reloaded his gun.

Jack nodded. “I know enough—now if we get into giant drill launchers, we might be shit outta luck.”

Booker snorted as he fished out the cigarettes. They were a little dusty and stale but who gave a shit. At this rate, he’d be gutted before he died of lung cancer. He split the pack and they each smoked in silence for a moment, to get their bearings. 

The radio buzzed: “—I just got into—some sort of market area—“

“Who’s that then!” Atlas buzzed immediately. 

Jack looked at Booker, the man gestured to the shortwave and so Jack offered it to him. 

The voice rasped passed the static again. “Is anyone there—Booker?”

“Shit,” Booker muttered and pressed the call button. “Elizabeth? Where are you!”

“Not sure, I opened a Tear so I wouldn’t drown and I am now. Somewhere. There are lots of trees.”

The radio churned with static before Atlas said, “You’re in Arcadia, love. Only place in Rapture with trees. Who are you, lass?”

“Name’s Elizabeth—your accent is interesting, Atlas. Where are you from?”

“Elizabeth,” Booker said into the radio, rolling his eyes. “Can you meet us at….” Booker cast around for a map decorating a tram schedule. “Neptune’s Bounty?” 

“Right, got it. I’ll find one of these little sub-pods and meet you there. Looks like some of them are still intact. Do you have one of these shortwave units from the bathyspheres? I can cut it with a signal boost—might help us keep in contact. Don’t know how it will do out in the ocean though.”

“So, try not to die until I find you,” Booker surmised. “Story of my life.”

Elizabeth laughed on her side. “Quite literally.”

"What?" Jack inquired quietly.

“Smartass.” Booker bit back an annoyed smirk, ignoring Jack's question by shaking his head silently as he heard Elizabeth beep out. 

Jack watched him. “So, is she your…partner? In finding people?”

Booker glanced sidelong at him. “She’s my daughter.”

“So you and your daughter are on a first-name basis?” Jack asked, carefully neutral.

Booker did a slight double-take at the kid. “Oh, you know how it is, your worse half takes everything when they leave.”

“Oh, so she grew up away from you. So you reconnected as adults? And now you’re bounty hunters together?”

“She takes after her mother.” Booker somehow suppressed the ridiculous urge to laugh. 

“Sounds fun to me,” Atlas chimed in.

“Hey, what would your wife think?” Jack said mock-sternly to the radio.

“Moira would shoot me.” Atlas sounded rather fond.

“I would too,” Booker grunted at the radio. Sounding not fond at all.

“Then I’ll be sure to keep an eye on her from a distance,” Atlas chuckled. “Reminds me of what Rapture used to be—you know, fathers looking out for their baby girls.”

Booker’s eye sharpened on the radio. He glanced up at Jack. 

“Not like it is now,” Atlas went on. “Now they’re Little Sisters and Big Daddies. Like the walking dead, that lot. But with the two of you—you might be able to take down one of the Big Daddies. He keeps her safe—she has the Adam and you’re gonna need Adam down here, lads.”

Adam—the stuff Vigors were made from. Plasmids here. He’d hope Elizabeth was paying attention but she was probably taking notes already. 

“Eve lets you use ‘em, like the other half of genetic code, calling on the plasmid. I’m not a chemist, so I don’t know the specifics.”

 _Salts_ , Booker thought. His fingers tingled whenever he used Murder of Crows—but it was so useful that he didn’t mind. The Eve here made it feel a little bit different. But the crows were still _his_. So at least for that. “Elizabeth, tell me when you find a plasmid. I assume you’ll want notes.”

“Correct. Wow, you’re such a good detective,” Elizabeth answered over the radio. 

“I swear to god, Elizabeth.”

 

 

From one of the vents, Caper peered out, watching them silently like a gaunt-eyed ghost. Maybe they were knights without armor? Like Ser Bubbles and Ser Curly and Ser Marshmallow. They always wore their shiny armor. You could never see their faces though. Always hidden by armor. 

The men were different and yet, also weren’t. And there was a Lady with them. Lady Elizabeth in Arcadia. Was she a knight without armor too? Like Lady Rosie and Lady Princess and Lady Brienne? Like them but without the armor? Her face was shining out, eyes like shimmering fish whenever they dipped in and out of the light.

Caper slipped out of the vent. She banged her ankles on the edges—she really was getting too big. Nothing looked like the Adam-haze anymore. Nothing covered in silks and flowers and warm lanterns—just metal and water and death. Because the yearning for Adam took over all the senses—

Caper shook herself again. She had to keep moving. She still held her injector, out of habit, mostly. She nervously tapped her leg with it. Her feet were so cold. She had to get dry. Had to get dry. Dry and warm. Or her feet would rot from the damp.

_Shining blue lights in the dark_


	2. Uncanny Valley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Go to Sleep Little Baby: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-F4jxLz7zNw
> 
> \-------------------  
> “Hi, your dad’s been worried sick about you,” Jack said brightly, offering his hand to shake.
> 
> Elizabeth chuckled at the annoyed look Booker threw at the kid but she stood up to take it. “Weird day, right?” She gave Jack a bracing smile.  
> \--------------------

Booker shuddered, staggering to his knees. Battleship Bay was a rough place when a crazy priest sends his lackeys after you. The motorized patriots were the worst. They were hard to kill and they _never_ could just shut the fuck up. 

The girl was beside him in a moment, flitting out from the shadows to grab his arm and shoulder. “Are you all right, Mister Dewitt? Hold still—you’re bleeding—“

“I’m fine, kid.”

“Just stay still. We have to wait for the gondola anyway.” She wiped blood off his brow as she urged him to sit on one of the remaining benches. “You should rest while you can.” She didn’t look at him when she said it, studying his burns and a shallow bullet wound that had braised his arm, tearing flesh and burning it aside. He was battered and bruised. All for money owed and a debt to pay. The poor man. He must be in dire straits to have taken an insane job like this. His shirt was torn up the side, showing sun-browned skin and other scars. 

“How did Slate hear about this place but not me?” Booker muttered to his calloused hands. “I never expected to see Slate here. How does he just _happen_ to be here? Or this Comstock, saying he led the Seventh.”

“But he didn’t?” Elizabeth asked, eyes bright and curious.

“No. He didn’t. I mean, not that he would’ve been out of place,” Booker snorted with a soft, self-depreciating sort of laugh. “Prejudice is fashionable when you’re building fifty foot statues of yourself.”

The two of them were quiet for awhile, while Elizabeth bandaged his arm up. Then she said, “At Wounded Knee—“

“I killed a lot of people. I made a mistake. A terrible one.”

 _Twice_ , something murmured. Booker shook himself a little.

“You did what you had to to survive, Booker.”

“I did it because I was weak. I thought killing would prove that I was one of them. Killing doesn’t make someone a hero. Sparing doesn’t make them a saint. But dying is dead. No matter what else is in question. I made my choice and I have to live with that. I’m not proud of it.”

Elizabeth stared at him for a long moment, studying his severe expression and the melancholy in his somber green eyes. 

And then he smiled in that humorless, crooked way he did, “So hey, you’re not a bigger monster than me, kid. You’re doing pretty good.”

Elizabeth cracked a little smile and patted his bandage before she slid an arm to his big shoulders to help him stand. “C’mon, Mister Dewitt. The gondola is here.” 

 

 

Elizabeth traced the condensation her breath made on the bathysphere’s window as it shuddered to a stop. The darkness was absolute while the thing was in motion. It made her miss the sunshine of Columbia, in a way. There was no fear of flying, just falling. And frankly, she’d rather radical terrorists instead of these spliced-up maniacs. At least her people hadn’t been _totally_ bonkers, just stupid. Just really stupid. And racist, wow. All that power Comstock gained and all he could think to do was build a city, a shrine to himself. Ugh, but it couldn’t be worse than the realities where she went and butchered people. It was easy to judge one person when you can only see one version of them. Everyone chooses a path. Those paths diverge. Elizabeth could hope she’d chosen the right path by sparing Booker Dewitt instead of attempting to wipe out several realities. The Luteces hadn’t helped—essentially kidnapping an unsuspecting Booker from another reality whenever they lost one. Terrible. She didn’t like to think of him as disposable. The Luteces mocking him almost to his face with their stupid necklace and their heads-or-tails tally board made her kind of want to put Robert Lutece back in his own reality, where he belonged and then slap Rosalind upside her head. Well, too late now, she had to grumble. Fink had tried to kill them with their machine and now they were everywhere at once. Able to travel at will but not actively change things like Elizabeth could. So they showed up every once in a while and annoyed them with a confusing bunch of double-talk. Booker had graduated to silently tolerating it instead of grinding his teeth. Her Booker from her timeline, her father—that was still a little weird to think—he was an intense bastard. But he was honest, at his core. And clearly, capable of a lot more than he presented—if Comstock was any indicator. The aged man was perusing quantum physics and high-level mathematics, her Booker was likely capable of the same, if he had any interest. Which he didn’t. 

That was fine. Elizabeth was comfortable being the encyclopedia and sneak-rogue. The combat nerd. And sometimes his discomfort with people was really funny. That never got old. Especially when it was women. Before Columbia, he’d likely tolerated flirting the same way he rather tolerated the Luteces but in front of Elizabeth, he suddenly seemed starkly aware of being her father. He seemed almost…embarrassed.

That was actually kind of sweet. And hilarious.

Booker hadn’t had any recent nosebleeds that she knew of—and so it was hard to say if a Booker existed in this universe. The nose only bled if they were dead. Could she, herself, be here? Or maybe an equivalent. Sometimes they had different names but their stories would line up in strange ways. She spotted a Big Daddy down a far hallway and slipped back into the shadows automatically. It made her think of the Handymen immediately.

Elizabeth was like a spectre, a ghost. Booker distracted their enemies and fought. Elizabeth advanced their objective, if possible. If not, she went back to help. She dreamed about it sometimes—running across concrete as sirens screamed and the airship bellowed with fire—running to Booker and finding half his face gone. She hated the feeling in her gut that gave her. Of failing. Of failing him, especially—after he’d finally put his faith in something. Even when she was mad at him, she couldn’t help hurrying to shield or cover him. He fought so hard to keep her safe. He’d nearly died so many times for her. He _had_ died for her, over and over again. Because fuck the Luteces sometimes, seriously. No one was going to take _this_ Booker away. He was her only real friend.

_And your father._

She shook herself. Still kinda weird.

Atlas buzzed at her jacket, where she’d tucked the radio. “You all right, there, love?”

“Ah, hallo again. Atlas, right?”

“That’s me. Heard you telling your father that you somehow got inside Rapture without using the Lighthouse. It’s all genetically coded, so you didn’t come in by bathysphere, I take it?”

“I did not, Mister Atlas.”

“You mind explainin how you got six miles into the Atlantic and didn’t die?”

“There's some heavy science involved,” she said, her tone indicating a questioning-eyebrow raise.

“Laymans terms’ll do.”

“It’s a new plasmid from the surface. It allows me to displace things.”

“From the surface, love? They don’t have plasmids on the surface.”

“How long has it been since you’ve been to the surface, Atlas?”

“No one can leave Rapture—that’s why we’re all stuck down here.”

 _No one?_ Elizabeth touched with her mind, felt the door open, footsteps, a man in a metal suit, wandering off and lost. Another coming down-- _Johnny Topside, folks! Our man of the hour, the sacrifice of one for the good of Rapture!_ \--and finding daylight again. 

It passed in a flash. “Are you sure about that, Atlas? Sounds like Rapture has more than a few leaks. Besides, you said you know I didn’t come through the dock, right? I clearly didn’t have my own submarine on the plane. You're the one controlling some of these cameras, right? And yet, I made it down there. So I should be on film in Arcadia."

“That you did, sweetheart,” Atlas’ voice changed tone, darkening a little. She could picture him narrowing his eyes at his radio. “What's the name of it?”

"Tear," she said simply.

"And can your dear old dad do that too?"

“You can ask him, if you want,” Elizabeth suggested, chuckling at the thought. She found a rifle in a crawlspace door, jammed half out of it. She crouched in the rafters, watching splicers roam the paths. 

Atlas didn’t say anything to that so she activated her new plasmid—Peeping Tom was a stupid name but it did let her see heat signatures through walls. Which was good when Booker wasn’t here to distract them while she hacked all the cameras and turrets. There were tons of them in this place. And not just for combat--but in everyday places, the residents were watched by gun-summoning bots. It was even more blatant than Comstock had been. She crept along the rafters, keeping to the corners so she could hijack them one at a time. Plus side here, once they were hacked, they were yours. Elizabeth managed to emerge in a cellar that was clearly a front for some people who were making explosives. One of these drug addicts with the mutated faces--vanished in a spray of what she had to presume was blood. He was down the corridor and she ducked under a thatch of vines. Their skin seemed to literally tear itself apart and then rebuilt the flesh with Adam when the splicer re-materialized. Interesting. _I better find Booker soon. If he gets caught alone by some of these guys..._ No, wait--she had to keep calm and collected. She had the radio. She'd confirmed he wasn't dead and honestly, she wasn’t surprised that Booker sounded like he was all right—just continuously world-weary. And likely trying to stop himself from punching this guy, Jack, right in the face. She could hear them bickering a little. Jack seemed to like jokes more than Booker did. No shock there. 

It made her smile. Sometimes he was like a big grumpy dog.

_Just don’t die until I get there._

“Harvest?” Booker’s voice crackled through the radio.

Elizabeth paused. That was a word that needed context. She turned the dial a little, trying to get a clearer signal. She listened to the waves wail and squeak. Where the hell was Atlas if he had Booker pinpointed? Was this Andrew Ryan following them with whatever cameras Atlas didnt control? The Comstock of this city, she supposed. Only Comstock had gone hardcore religion and Ryan had gone hardcore true capitalist. And both societies collapsed. The ones who remained couldn’t have this kind of observational control unless they were mostly sane. So not one of the splicers. 

“You want us to _kill_ her?” Jack gaped, sounding incredibly young for a moment.

“No,” Booker said immediately. 

“You don’t understand, boy-o. She has Adam. That Tenenbaum is playing you for a sap. She created the little ghouls.”

Elizabeth listened to Jack murmur something and Booker’s rough voice replied with, “We’re not doing that. Use the plasmid. We are not harvesting little girls—“

“No one is going to, Dewitt,” Jack told him, a little louder. 

“Booker,” Elizabeth couldn’t listen anymore, imagining how the darkness would rise in his eyes. 

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” Booker said, a little tersely. “I just—what they’ve done to these kids—and why only girls? Where are all the boys? What happened to the children when this place went to hell?”

Oh wow, okay—Booker was taking this a lot harder than she’d expected. Maybe this world hit a little too close to home for him. For them, really. Elizabeth may have fucked up on this one. “Booker, we’ll figure it out.”

“If we need the Adam, then I’ll do it,” Jack said into the radio. “Give me the plasmid.”

“If you hurt her—“

“I _won’t,”_ Jack insisted. All Elizabeth could hear was crackling static for a few moments. 

She heard Booker take some very stiff, measured breathes. “I guess this plasmid pulls out the little…thing that makes the Adam. And…” he raised his voice. “So she’s normal again? She’s a normal kid?”

 _Human but probably not normal._ Elizabeth had seen a Little Sister and her glowing eyes from a distance. She felt them watching her from the weird vents, like black holes into nothing. (And seriously, why were they so high off the ground? What a stupid design.)

“Maybe that’s what happened to the girl we saw?” Jack was saying.

“What girl did ya see?” Atlas asked, starting to sound harassed.

“Looked to be maybe thirteen or so,” Booker reported. “Bone-skinny, filthy, soaked in blood—she had this weird needle device. She said her name was Caper.”

“I’ll have a few lads go check it out. Maybe we can help someone if they’re sane enough,” Atlas answered through the shortwave. “Now best get a move on.”

Elizabeth listened to Jack lip off something sarcastic, no doubt trying to get Booker to ease back into his head. At least, that's why Elizabeth snarked at him at lot. Maybe this guy Jack wasn’t so dumb. 

Atlas, however; he didn’t fit any of the molds she’d been prepared for. Nothing felt right. Was Atlas this world’s Fink or its Daisy? And was he listening to everything they were saying through the radio? Elizabeth put that one standby, taking it apart in her head while she slipped along the desolate hallways and destruction. 

“Lady…”

Elizabeth froze. She could feel the eyes on the back of her neck. 

“Lady….”

She turned around. A girl was standing a dozen feet from her in a nest of shadows. The girl’s eyes were hollow, gaunt. She was barefoot. Her skin was greyish from what had to be this Adam sickness. But less so than the Little Sister she’d seen. Ghoulish.

But the girl’s eyes were clear—they didn’t burn like candles. They were aware, sparkling, but deeply backed into her own head. 

“Are you a knight?” The girl asked.

“I’m afraid not,” Elizabeth answered, voice gentle and soft. 

“Big Sister should stay away. They have blood traps in the market.”

Elizabeth studied the waif, taking a step towards her. She saw ragged clothes and the strange needle device and she did look to be about twelve or thirteen. “How do you know me?” Elizabeth asked her.

“You came with the angels. The knights. You feel different.”

“You saw Booker?”

Elizabeth watched the girl’s eyes become more vacant, wandering away somewhere in her head as she remembered the detective. “And Jack,” she said. “He feels different too.”

“In what way?” Elizabeth sat down on a bench and patted the place next to her.

Caper hesitated and then silently sat down. “When you look at the trees but never see the sun. You grow tall as the night to feel the day.”

“You were born in Rapture?” Elizabeth surmised. “What’s your name?”

“Yes. And Caper.”

“Were you a Little Sister?”

She nodded. “I woke up. I don’t want to drink the blood anymore.”

Oh, good god. Sometimes, Elizabeth really hated people. She had books on the development of Vigors back in her tower. Fink had found out about some sort of slug that rebuilt and resurrected dead stem cells. The Fountain of Life, he had proclaimed, much to Comstock's approval. But in Columbia there was no Eve or Adam. Or, rather--there was no marketing difference. Plasmids and Vigors were special blends of genetic-cocktails (I'll take a DNA Slammer, please), like adding milk and sugar to your coffee. Adam and Salts were the base mixture for them. Like coffee, one needs more or it wears off and the withdraw begins. Only on a genetic scale. With no Adam or Salts in one's system, one could not force the genetic transformations. But in Columbia, Vigors were drunk. Here, they were injected. Interesting. So the little girls had to drink the blood that contained traces of stem cell evolution. It would be concentrated in their bellies…

Elizabeth got a chill up her spine. So they must make them throw it up or pump their stomachs. And then what? You distill the Adam out and then sell it right back to these maniacs as Eve? So was that it? Adam was they called the raw substance that the slug produced, Eve was what they called it after it had been ingested by a Little Sister. Elizabeth pondered that, for how had Fink created Salts in such vast amounts without a farm of Little Sisters to process it? Could they have missed something in Columbia? It sent a spike of unease through her, that they might have missed a vast operation somewhere in Columbia. And how does one even distill down raw genetic superglue? Horrible. This was terrible. Depravity, and the depths of it, never failed to take the bar lower. 

No wonder the girl looked like a ghost. Traumatized for several lifetimes, very likely. 

“Hallo, lovelies.”

Elizabeth jumped up, raising her pistol automatically. Three men stood behind the bench. One had a large fireman’s ax. One had a club. One had a gun. 

“Who are you, tart?”

“Ain’t she delicious, lads. Give us the girl and then you come along real quiet-like and maybe we won’t carve your face afterwards.”

Elizabeth wasted no time shooting the one with the gun in the head. The others reconsidered in a hurry, jumping at her. An airy shield deflected two bullets and then she was reaching for the Tonic she found. It was just like reaching for a Vigor. But this time she tasted electricity and metal in her mouth before summoning two security bots to herself. The goons were quick to scatter and the bots took to patrolling the area around them. 

The girl was staring up at Elizabeth, mouth hanging open. “You’re like a real knight.”

“No, that’s Booker,” Elizabeth tittered. “Come on—let’s take over one of these rooms. You need to get cleaned up. And you’re shivering.”

The child didn’t deny it. She walked quietly beside Elizabeth, docile. She reeked of blood and rot. There was some kind of bar here in Neptune’s Bounty ("I took my wife here on our first date," Atlas told her for no reason at all but sounding fond when he recalled it). And as Jack and Booker weren’t here yet, all she could do was wait, anyway. The kid slipped in and out of shadows like a fox. It was strange to watch her while Elizabeth kicked a door in and cleared out a small apartment of three splicers. A strange sort of role reversal—like her and Booker. Only she was Booker. Ha, yeah right. 

The Sister slipped into the room. She rocked back and forth in place. Her dead eyes made it hard to watch, something intensely creepy about it. Uncanny valley territory. Elizabeth busied herself lighting a woodstove and testing the faucets for hot water. “How did you wake up?”

The waif shrugged. “Don’t know. I was in the morgue.”

Elizabeth did a double-take at her.

“Not dead—I wasn’t in a box yet. I got a Peppa Plasmid—made for kids to practice with. It makes me fade away.”

“Like Camouflage.”

“Uh-huh, specially for us at the Gatherer’s Garden.”

“What’s that?”

For a moment, Caper looked lost, like she’d ask her to describe air. “Smart Daddies get spliced there,” the girl managed, staring down at her knees and rocking back and forth again.

“Okay—it’s okay. No worries, come on. We’ll get you cleaned up.” Elizabeth put a gentle hand on the girl’s should, feeling a stab of pity for her. It was exhausting to see and feel the remorse of those who felt this reality so keenly but that was the one burden that Elizabeth would bear. A small price to pay to be able to travel other words with Booker. 

She helped Caper with a bath, unearthing her ragged dusty-brown hair, tangled up in a knot of ringlets and viscera. She had to cut some of it out. Of all the huge things Elizabeth had seen, sometimes she felt she had no control over any of it. And then sometimes, it was like this—something she could do to help right now. No magical space-warp needed. Just help the girl get clean, comb her hair and get her some clothes that were dry. It was easy to let the girl relax, finally dozing off by the woodstove. Whatever nightmare the kid saw when she was awake, hopefully it was marginally better than whatever the poor thing saw in her dreams.

Was it night? Without any sun, there was no way to know for sure. The clocks here weren’t exactly reliable. Maybe it was just a longer day than she was used to. She and Booker hadn’t ever gone to a world so close to their own, but also so starkly different. Most changes in most worlds were small, after all. She leaned back into the couch, resolving to ask Booker what he thought when he arrived. 

 

 

“Elizabeth? Elizabeth?”

She started a little by the woodstove. Caper was curled up on the couch beside her. Booker was standing over them, leaning down to her. “Oh, hey. You made it.”

“You okay?”

“Yes, yeah, I’m fine. Booker—is this the girl you met?”

“Hey, it is,” the other man answered.

This must be Jack, Elizabeth surmised. He was wearing a fluffy knit-sweater that had probably not been so blood-soaked a dozen hours ago. He had chains tattooed on his wrists and he was nearly of height with Booker. He smiled at her but his eyes were tired. 

“Elizabeth, this is Jack. Jack, this is Elizabeth.”

“Hi. Your dad’s been worried sick about you,” Jack said brightly, offering his hand to shake.

Elizabeth smiled at the annoyed look Booker threw at the kid but she stood up to take his hand. “Weird day, right?” She gave Jack a bracing smile.

“Right,” Jack agreed. “I don’t think I’ve had time to process yet.”

“And we likely won’t get any.”

“That’s the damn truth.”

“Is this where you’ve set up for the night?” Booker asked, automatically peering into all the corners and walking a loop in the small apartment.

“Yes, Booker—I brought Caper here to clean up while I was waiting for you.”

“Yeah. Head of surgery was a difficult customer,” Booker grumbled.

“You do look a little less cold, kiddo,” Jack said. He knelt down so he was eye-level with Caper. “How you feel?”

Caper avoided meeting his eyes. “Okay,” she said softly.

“Big sis over here was nice to you?”

Caper nodded. “She’s a knight. She beat the demons back.”

Booker peered out the doorway, eyes always moving as he opened up the control panel for the apartment next to them. It was empty, save for a corpse sitting in front of a broken television. 

“Oh yeah, pretty tough, is she?”

Caper nodded, watching Jack glance over Elizabeth. His eyes ran up her lithe, graceful form and then instantly jerked them away when Booker reentered the room. If Elizabeth noticed, she didn’t say anything. Her papa eyed Jack before scowling a little to himself. “Room next door has some canned goods and some clothes for her,” he said, nodding to Caper. “Some boots that might fit her, anyway.” He set them down on the floor. “I’ll bring their bedding over. We’ll take what’s clean enough and set up camp here for the night.”

“Worst campsite ever,” Jack muttered. “Definitely leaving a bad review.”

Elizabeth chuckled, grabbing one of the boots and checking the sole against Caper’s foot. Booker reappeared a few minutes later with an armful of linens. And then he ventured down to the bar and took everything canned and bottled. He didn’t drink much anymore, but for special occasions. He supposed murderous, blood-drinking psychopaths counted as an exception. When he returned, Jack was standing near the doorway, leaning in it, just waiting for Booker. 

“Wanted to help,” the kid told him, looking a little apologetic, “but I didn’t want to….uh…leave them.” He glanced over at Elizabeth and Caper. “I mean—“

“She can handle herself.”

“I figured, with a dad like you, Dewitt. But, I just—“

Booker snorted. “She’s the smart one, not me.” And then Booker shook himself. Kid just felt guilty and like he wasn't doing enough. He was probably a bit frazzled. No need to be short with him. “I mean. It’s fine. It’s—thank you.”

“I suppose you’d worry no matter what,” Jack ventured, giving him an earnest half-smile.

Booker did a slight double-take at the kid. He grunted and shrugged. “You’re sleeping in the other room,” he said instead, pointing to the back of the apartment. 

“Point taken, sir,” Jack said, giving him a grin and a good-natured shrug. He gave Caper a little wave as he headed towards the bedroom, pulling off his knit-sweater. It was sopping wet, as was the t-shirt he wore under it. He threw them into the dryer unit and went to have a hot shower.

Elizabeth waited until she heard the water turn on to look sidelong at Booker. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. That kid is just a talker.”

“He seems nice?” She ventured, watching his five o’clock shadow grimace. 

“He can handle himself, definitely. Knows his way around weapons. Thought he was just some rich guy’s son but the kid’s a brawler. He beat someone to death with a wrench. Didn’t bat an eye. So not your usual civilian.”

Elizabeth paused, peering at Booker. “How old is he?”

“Can’t be more than twenty. Maybe twenty-one.”

“Hmm, I wonder if he’s the _you_ of this reality.”

Booker sighed heavily. “This _is_ real, you know. We need to be careful down here. We don’t know how extreme the differences could be.”

“I know that, Booker. I’m just—“

“I know. It’s what you do. It’s your. Thing.” Booker gestured uselessly. “Just be careful down here. If something happens to you, I’ll be cutting bait for the rest of my, probably extremely short, life.” 

Elizabeth couldn’t help it, laughing quietly at That Tone he used when he was looking out for her but also trying not to be weird about wanting to look out for her. “I’ll be careful, Booker. No worries. You’d lose your tan down here.”

“Thank you for taking that into consideration.”

 

 

_"Go to sleep you little baby"_  
_"Go to sleep you little baby"_

Jack jerked awake. He was soaked in sweat. Booker was lying on a ragged couch stuffed into the back room. The guy was tense as a spring. Definitely a soldier at heart. But he was good. Jack could feel that. As much as Booker radiated restrained aggression, his eyes were always quiet and somber. Especially when he talked about Elizabeth. Or to Elizabeth. Or whenever he was fighting. He was just sort of reserved and guarded.

His daughter on the other hand. Jack peered into the front room where Elizabeth was curled up tight and small on the couch by the woodstove. He slipped out to stoke the fire, looking over her in the warm firelight and shadows. She was really something. Striking blue eyes and dark, almost black, hair. She was dressed in a mix of canvas and wool, good stuff for going into unexpected climate changes. The trousers were black, non-descript and they huddled in the belt straps of thick, heavy boots. Her jacket was dark blue. The crossbow was within easy reach. She was a strange one. Clearly extremely intelligent. She was sharp as a tack and fiercely independent. And yet she and Papa Dewitt got along strangely well. When his daughter didn’t meet them in the docking bay, Booker went into clear Sergeant Mode and was on the hunt. Atlas advised them to move on and Booker told him to fuck himself. Jack just held the radio, watching Booker get more agitated the longer the Irishman kept talking. 

When they’d found her, that was when Booker eased back a little, bristling like a guard dog and then slowly relaxing. Because she was fine. She could take care of herself. She was really something. Pretty too, a total knockout—just an added bonus. And yet, something about her seemed almost…familiar. 

_Your momma's gone away and your daddy’s gonna stay, didn't leave nobody but the baby_

Jack tensed at the slide of metal and flesh. And the voice. So he really _had_ heard something. Jack crept away from Elizabeth’s small form and out the main door. The bar was silent and utterly dark. He could almost feel the water pressing in against the glass to get at them.

_She's long gone with her red shoes on, you gonna need a-nother lovin' baby_

And then Jack saw her, Caper. The girl was in the next apartment. She was rocking back and forth by a corpse. Only her injector’s glow gave any light as she stabbed it into the body. 

_"You and me and the devil makes three, don’t need no other lovin baby."_ She stabbed again, fluid racing up into the injector. 

Jack leaned against the doorjam. "Hey, kiddo?“

The girl stopped, the red light giving her gaunt face a hollow look. She stabbed again. “Come lay your bones on the alabaster stone and be my ever-loving baby.”

Jack half-smiled at the kid. “Someone sing that to you a lot?” He walked carefully into the dark apartment, kneeling a few feet away so not to spook her.

“Yes,” Caper told him, sitting down and opening the injector cap. She stared at the soup of blood and Adam. 

“You don’t have to drink it, Caper,” Jack reminded her gently.

The girl swallowed hard and nodded. She tipped the chamber, letting the stuff leak out onto the corpse. She laid the injector down on its chest. 

“How about we get you cleaned up and you lay down and rest, okay?”

She got up and Jack walked her back to the apartment. He stopped short when Elizabeth appeared. She eyed him, examining the both of them critically. And then she seemed to relent, gently patting the child’s shoulder and sending her on in. 

“Is she okay?” Elizabeth asked him, looking up at him with those fiercely intelligent eyes.

“She was just…” Jack shook his head. “She’s trying to shake the Little Sister off, I guess.”

Elizabeth glanced back, where Caper went to warm her hands by the woodstove. “She was singing?”

Jack nodded. “Why did they teach them the creepy lullabies?”

“I’m pretty sure all lullabies are creepy.”

“Well, that’s true,” Jack agreed. 

That made her smile. She was sharp and beautiful like ice but when she smiled—really smiled—it was like sunshine. Like feeling sunshine for the first time. 

“So, uh—do you more resemble your mom?”

Elizabeth paused. “Oh, um. I imagine so—yes, I mean. I do.” She had Booker's dark hair and Lady's Comstock's eyes, his Annabelle's eyes, anyway. Though Elizabeth couldn't be certain that the resemblance went beyond that. She'd never even seen Lady Comstock in person. 

Jack watched her think. “Okay, just gonna throw this one out here—you and your dad are like those people that have bomb shelters and are always preparing for apocalypse or something?”

Elizabeth stared at him blankly for a second and then burst out laughing. “Close enough.”


	3. Ser Marshmallow was a Good Friend of Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I like the listen to music when I write.  
> If you're into that sort of thing, music was Wordclock: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=458hd4FWszk&list=PL99czue-ivEuZcnXk-2ixQhhAmOcQE-_n  
> \----------------------------------------
> 
> When she felt his gaze and met it, he made a point to look back and forth between her and Booker. “So. I take it you are big fans of the easternmost township of Ohio: Columbia?”
> 
>  
> 
> \-----------------------------------------

“A man like me could have use of an old Pinkerton like you.”

Elizabeth saw Booker’s jaw lock. His hackles came right up, bristling. She could almost _feel_ him hating himself for it all. But it…it wasn’t his fault. He’d been sent here and then followed. He was clearly being set up. He had nothing personal wrapped up with these people who were so desperate to take her back and yet, because they demanded her from him, he refused. And the more stubbornly he fought an entire goddamn city for her, the more he seemed…sympathetic. 

His rough edges smoothed away. He was giving her some very fast lessons on loading ammunition for his rifle while they were crouched at the corner of the clockshop. Elizabeth had not really noticed it, given that she had generally been treated quite well in her tower but given Booker’s gruffness and sharp edges—it was strange that he tried so hard to be gentle when he spoke to her. Nothing else about him was gentle. But his voice, low and gravely, was rather soothing. He didn’t get angry when she asked him questions, he answered as best he could—feeling a flicker of the soldier in him come back. He spoke to her firmly and seriously. He looked her in the eye and made sure she understood before he looked away. He was firm but not cruel. He was helpful without being condescending. 

Maybe…he had his own sort of honor. He was a soldier, after all. And he likely only knew violence. One didn’t become a killer overnight. If he had known Slate and Comstock, then he truly must have been with a Cavalry unit—so he must be an expert horseman. That made sense. People who were good with animals, especially smart ones like dogs and horses, tended to also be pretty good at reading fellow humans. We’re just other animals. Instinctive leadership comes from people like that. And that’s what you want, really, someone who can read the mood of people. Connect with them in a big picture sort of way without having to worry about gritty details. Someone like Booker would need someone to be able to handle all the gritty details. 

_Like me._

Maybe down below that had been his wife, whoever she’d been, that died in childbirth. But he said he had no child. So the child must have died too. Someone might become jaded after that. They’d meant a lot to him, from his reluctance to engage in it. Elizabeth glanced sidelong at him, his eyes darkening and his stance becoming solid as a wall. 

For some reason, she spoke, “I’m sorry I called you a thug, Mister Dewitt.”

He did the slightest of double-takes, examining her. “Can’t imagine what I could have done to warrant that.”

“You protected me.” She watched him shift and look away. There was such a casual, tired loneliness about him.

“Job’s a job,” he grunted, looking down at his pistol. 

Elizabeth watched his big shoulders curl in a little, brow furrowed, like he wasn’t sure what to make of her. Maybe it wasn’t that he was unkind but that…maybe once he’d been kind. And something hurt him. That’s what real people did, right? Humans adapt: to pain, to death, to violence, to whatever will help them survive. 

He survived seemingly on stubbornness alone. He just refused to die. For some reason, that made her smile to herself. There was a _goodness_ to him, however raw the man appeared to be. She watched his somber green eyes examine the stairs in a flash. He gently took her shoulder and tucked her behind him before he opened the door into the Good Time club.

He kept a palm on Elizabeth’s upper spine. “Stay against the walls as much as you can. Keep in the shadows. If they’re targeting me, it’ll be too dangerous for you to scout around in an enclosed space like this.”

“Booker, I can help you. They don’t want to risk hurting me—“

“Elizabeth,” he said, a little louder, catching her eyes with his own. “Keep against the walls, stay out of sight.” And he let her go, raising his eyebrows until she scowled but relented, crouching down behind the bar.

A back corner with easy access to the exit and a few internal rooms. The girl was fast, surprisingly so. She ran through their firefights and nothing seemed to touch her. A scratch or bruise here and there—but somehow, she hadn’t been shot. That was amazing. Her clothes were taking some real damage—he needed to get her some proper gear for all this running around and dodging bullets and shit. A dress wasn’t much use for urban combat. Not that it sounded like she’d ever had a choice. This creepy prophet guy put her in blue and white like he saw swans on a river. And she was graceful and bright and actually better socialized than he’d expect from a girl essentially homeschooled and knowing no other children, only nitpicky adults. She was excited to learn—and there were vast holes in her knowledge of history (and even Booker could talk for more than three minutes about the Civil War) but her grasp of higher math and science, she took to it like a fish to water. She was calculating. But it was real logical, not vindictive at all. He supposed she wasn’t used to ‘real’ people, just high-brow scientist types that made cities float and let him manifest crows. He could feel their focus and intent, magnifying it by a hundred. And then tearing their attackers apart. It was brutal and messy. And he did not mince words about how serious this was and how very likely it might be that he would die fighting for her. So all he could think to do was brush her up on her practical skills: learning to track, to be silent, how to not die from the cold, and learning about his weapons. He gave her a pistol for her to keep on herself, showed her how to use it and under what circumstances to draw it. 

“If you feel threatened and fear for your life, if you mean to kill someone so that they don’t kill you.”

“What if that’s you, Mister Dewitt?”

“Then I guess you shoot me,” he’d said, shrugging and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one with a match. “Let me finish this first, if you don’t mind.”

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose, scoffing at him and tossing her hair. “I never said it _was_ you, Mister Dewitt!”

“That’s to protect _you,_ Elizabeth. For you to protect yourself. You don’t have to protect me. But if something happens to me, maybe a bullet or two will give you a chance to hide or something. You’re good at sneaking around. Just stay in the shadows.”

She had stared at him, looking a little uncertain suddenly.

Booker ignored it then the same way he made himself ignore it at the Good Time club. She was hidden but she was watching him closely. Booker rewrapped the bandaging on his hands. His fingers were stiff and painful but it faded away when Fink sent his men after him. It was just a confusing mess of gunfire. Booker felt no hot or cold. Everything was just rushing around him and he struck like a demon and then winked back into the shadows. There was blood on him, from him, everywhere. The shotgun was burning hot into his hand. He never felt it, smelling his own blood, feeling it flood out of him when he breathed too deeply. His mouth tasted like pennies. Even when the room was silent, it wasn’t. He heard the screaming in the back of his head, always. Booker shuddered, sitting down in the remains of a booth and pouring from a bottle of bourbon that had somehow survived the onslaught. He ran his fingers through his hair, grabbing into it and feeling the blood flake off of his scalp and dust the table. Elizabeth appeared at his side like a ghost, as if she’d always been there. “Booker, put your head down. You’re bleeding.”

“What?” Booker asked, giving her a crooked grin. “I’m offended at the notion that I have any more blood.”

She choked back a small laugh, putting a hand to her mouth as if in apology. “You’re not that bad, you know.”

Booker snorted, sitting up in the booth and letting her tilt his head to look at the blistering on his neck and ears from the stupid flame-throwing maniacs. He felt her move his scalp around and she did something with the Salts that seemed to help. He didn’t have nearly the scars he’d been expecting considering some of the damage this crazy fucking robo-town could do. 

“Come on, let’s look at your shoulder.”

“You don’t need to,” he managed, a little gruffly, almost automatically. 

“Shut up, Booker.”

He jerked his gaze to her and she gave him a strange little smile. “Come on, detective. I don’t have all day. Let’s look at your shoulder, dummy.”

He stared at her, a little bemused and then obeyed. He removed his vest and opened his shirt to let her examine his shoulder. The blood was oozing from a deep burn, shrapnel was imbedded into the flesh at two points. There were multiple slash wounds from those horrible Crows. They split across his back and chest like a whip. His shirt was totally soaked in blood and sweat. “I’ll go get a towel—we need to clean these up before we move on. If they get infected, you could die. Stay here, I’ll go look around for some Salts.”

“Elizabeth,” Booker objected, starting to get up. 

“Hey, I’m sneaky, remember?” Elizabeth threw her hands up and dared him to go back on it. “Now sit down, geez. You’ll just slow me down like you are.” She vanished around the corner.

Well, okay, that was true. Booker couldn’t deny that. But still….

The detective scowled but listened on tenderhooks for a shout or anything from the direction she’d gone. He went to the bar and poured a pitcher of water and dug around for a rag. He kept an eye near the stage lights as he washed himself up as best he could. Scrubbing the blood out of his hair and his beard and his eyes helped him suppressed the chill that went up his spine. He bloodied three rags before he could even remotely be called clean but he wanted to get the blood off. He needed to get it off. He reeked of blood and rotted things. 

And he was exhausted. Night would come soon—and the nights were dark and very cold up this high. Everything hurt now that adrenaline was wearing off. He rubbed his arms down, then his chest and his back, feeling old scars and new prickle with gooseflesh. Fresh blood mixed with the cold water, tinting his tanned skin with it.

“Mister Dewitt—“ Elizabeth stopped short at the door, hesitated and then entered.

Booker tensed, wiping water from his eyes. “What’s wrong?” 

“Fink has a private room here. There’s some gear, somewhere we can defend and rest. There’s also a fireplace and it’ll be dark soon. So, let’s go before someone comes poking inside.” She touched his arm, drawing it to her shoulders. He allowed this, if only because she had already done it and he didn’t really think it was worth upsetting her over. She seemed less frazzled so that was good. She kept glancing at him like maybe he was going to start losing limbs at any moment. 

In Fink’s warm private office, Booker shut the door and turned the lock. Elizabeth helped him set up a barrier of book shelves and then he staggered up to the fireplace and perched onto a fancy couch. He was straightbacked, wiping down his trousers. Elizabeth brought him a shirt that likely belonged to Fink. It was snug on Booker’s broad shoulders and muscled arms but it was clean. He let it hang open while he checked his guns and took the wrappings off his hands. 

Somehow, he dozed off in the middle of it all. Exhaustion swept over him like a wave and it had him leaning back into the couch, finally relaxing a little. His pistol lay trapped at his belt buckle, his heavy hand keeping it in place.

Elizabeth slipped out of the room and searched the building top to bottom. She brought back a little mountain of supplies while he slept. He needed it. He was so tired. She dug out some trousers and gear for herself from the armory under the theater. She stocked them with ammunition, cleaned and loaded each of Mister Dewitt’s guns and oiled his knife and skyhook. 

She’d never seen a man like him before. And definitely not like this. He was muscled and brown as a nut under his shirt, still hanging open against his skin. It gave him a sort of grizzled handsomeness, something rough and commanding. But he was surprisingly gentle too. He didn’t hurt anyone if he could help it. He’d tried to talk Slate out of fighting them multiple times. He didn’t _like_ killing. It was just what he knew. And he was trying to know something else.

She cleaned and bandaged his wounds. He tried to wake up when she touched him with a warm rag but she murmured, “It’s all right, Booker. It's just me.”

And, oddly enough, that seemed to help him settle into sleep again. Elizabeth wondered who his wife had been that he’d become so hard after her death. Or had he always been like this and she had soothed him? God was cruel to take people away like that. 

Also, any men she’d seen in her tower were never left alone with her. She’d never seen an actual uncovered male human body. She’d only ever seen pictures in her clinical books. So it felt rather strange, looking at Booker’s broad, rangy form and realizing he was handsome. He had to be about twice her age but still—she could admit, clinically, that he was handsome in a rugged sort of way. Different from all the scientists and doctors she’d met. And really, she hadn’t ever considered men very much—having been separated from people for most of her life. She sat on the couch, curling her feet under her and watched the fireplace as the absolute darkness fell outside. 

He twitched in his sleep, ground his teeth, and clenched his fists. He was always fighting, even when he slept. Elizabeth stoked the fire one last time and covered him with blankets before curling up on the couch, trying to stay awake.

“Anna…” 

Elizabeth glanced sidelong at him, watching something painful flinch across his face. “Booker,” she murmured softly, touching his arm.

The detective started, tensing into her touch immediately. He blinked, a little bleary eyed. “What’s wrong?” he grunted, studying her face for a hint of distress.

“Nothing. You just looked like you were…cold,” she said. No need to remind him of bad dreams. 

“Cold—“ he looked at the blankets she’d piled on him. “Oh, right. Yeah. C’mere.” He lifted the edge of the blankets and shifted them to cover her.

“We can share them, you know. I’m not gonna bite you. You’re old enough to be my father.”

Booker grunted an annoyed sound, though he still seemed a little off-kilter. He was tense as a spring for a moment, feeling her curl up beside him. By the time he woke up almost twelve hours later, she was passed out against his chest. Her hair was tangled around one of Fink’s buttons. He absently untangled it without waking her. She’d put a solid defense around them. The kid was learning fast.

 

 

“Oh, I did good? Thanks.”

Booker eyed her. “Yes, you did. The security bots are helpful. Good for keeping a secure perimeter.”

“These plasmids are really interesting. We could never control robotics to this degree in Columbia.”

“In Columbia, you grow to reach the sky. In Rapture, the sky reaches for you.” 

Booker and Elizabeth looked at Caper. Jack looked at Elizabeth, studying her intent eye on the kid. When she felt his gaze and met it, he made a point to look back and forth between her and Booker. “So. I take it you are big fans of the easternmost township of Ohio: Columbia?”

“Well, that’s one way of putting it,” Elizabeth said, shrugging.

“I’d appreciate any kind of way, really,” Jack said, tone turning more serious as he took in Dewitt. The guy was a bareknuckle brawler, not bad for an older guy. Jack wasn’t entirely certain he could take him in a fight. “I’m getting a little tired of the runaround. It’s pretty obvious to anyone who spends more than a half hour with you two that there’s something off about you both. Now, I’m not pointing fingers. You both have helped me. But I don’t remember seeing either of you in the plane.”

“We blend in,” Booker said.

“You can,” Jack agreed and then looked at Elizabeth, “but I feel like I’d remember you.”

“Well, I can understand that impulse,” Elizabeth agreed. “But the problem lies in the fault of trauma and memory and where they are stored in the human brain. We struggle to connect dots that we don’t understand. The brain is entirely capable of creating false memories. So, you putting your argument entirely on the subjectivity of whether or not I’m unique enough that you would so clearly remember me if you _had_ seen me, is ridiculous. And _still_ your own fault, by the way.”

Booker lit a cigarette and let it bob between his lips as he rewrapped his hands. The scraps of fabric were stained but at least they were dry. 

“And Booker—oh my god—we’re underwater in a pressurized environment. Stop smoking. We need to conserve air—god knows we’re gonna burn a bunch of it up in combat.”

Booker looked at Caper. Caper looked up at him. He shrugged like _you know how it is_ and he put out the cigarette with his fingers. He stuffed it back into his shirtpocket. That made the kid crack a smile, like a secret that only they shared. 

“Okay, fine,” Jack allowed. “But you can’t deny that you two are weirdly well-prepared for this situation.”

Elizabeth glanced at Booker, huffing in annoyance as he appeared to be ignoring this conversation in its entirety. He grabbed some of the clothes he’d found for Caper and measured her against socks, boots and some trousers, a shirt and a jacket. 

“Yes, we are,” Elizabeth allowed. “Booker is a soldier a heart. He’s always prepared. But we knew a city like Rapture. Only it was above the surface--up in the sky.”

“Columbia, I take it?” Jack asked, leveling his gaze at the woman. 

“Yes. Ever heard of it?”

“Never heard of it,” Jack told her, frowning.

“I hadn’t either until I got there,” Booker said, letting Caper examine his skyhook, spinning the brutal clamp with her fingers.

Jack looked between the two of them. Elizabeth was barely two feet away, all burning blue eyes and fierce intelligence, eager for debate. And then across the room, Booker. He looked almost domestic with the Little Sister. In regular clothes, she almost looked like a child again. But her eyes were so hollow and did it really matter if they were con artists or something, so long as they could help each other?

Jack sighed. 

“We’re not gonna make you stay with us,” Booker said quietly, watching Caper with his skyhook and letting his stance relax a little. “But I do think it would be dangerous for you to go alone. But neither of us will stop you.” Booker glanced sidelong at Jack. “But if you stay with us, you work with us. We help each other. If you betray us, I’ll kill you.” The detective shrugged, still looking mostly sleepy about the situation. “In return, we help you not die. Seems pretty straight-forward to me.”

Jack looked between the two and then glanced at Caper. She was looking back with her limpid, empty eyes. She straightened a little. “You can’t become an angel yet. But you shouldn’t become a demon either.”

Jack eyed the kid, absently running his fingers over the chain links on his wrists. “Fine. But if we get through this with most of our limbs, you have to help me get out of here. And maybe see this Columbia place. And we’re not hurting the Sisters.”

“Deal,” Elizabeth said immediately.

“Ditto,” Booker echoed.

Elizabeth kept her eye on Jack after that. The really _was_ something a bit odd about him. He was handsome enough, she supposed: blue eyes, sandy-brown hair, a strong jawline. He was lean. Not as big as Booker but there was still a rangy strength to him that only seemed to get better the longer they were down here stabbing themselves with plasmids. But it wasn’t until after she saw him brain a splicer with a huge wrench that she thought to ask:

“So, if we’re fielding questions, Jack?” She raised her eyebrows at him.

Jack grabbed a mail satchel off a corpse and was shaking it out. “What’s that?”

“You’re pretty solid at hitting things with that wrench. Did you fight a lot before this?”

Jack did a slight double-take at her and then looked down to consider the question. “Not really,” he said, finally. “Just has a good weight, I guess.”

“Some people do have a natural affinity for momentum weapons,” Booker allowed, raising his eyebrows at Elizabeth. “As I seem to recall you were a good hit with that wrench on the aerodrome.”

“You hit your dad with a wrench?” Jack looked between them, baffled. 

“He’s making it sound worse than it was,” Elizabeth scowled, crossing her arms as they walked down an artfully lit aquarium hallway.

“I’m just reporting what happened,” Booker said, fighting a small smile. “That I had just freed you, we finally got the airship—“

“And you lied to me.” Elizabeth pointed out.

“I told you one lie. You hit me with a wrench.”

“Aww, poor mercenary.”

Jack looked at Caper, shrugging at her. _Dads and kids, right?_

Caper looked at Jack. “I don’t remember my dad.”

Jack peered at her haunted, pale eyes. “Me neither.”

_Wait. What._

Jack shook himself, sitting down beside her. “I mean. Of course I do.” He put a hand over his face. It was like a pin were being shoved into his eyes and under his fingernails. It was electric, like an intense migraine. He shuddered, curling in on himself as his stomach gave an unpleasant lurch.

Caper got up. “Jack?” When he didn’t respond but for a nod, the Little Sister touched his hair and drew his eyes to her shoulder.

Elizabeth seemed to notice something amiss as she and Booker bickered back and forth. “Jack? You okay?”

“Yeah,” Jack said, voice hitched and a little strained but lifting a hand as if to prove he was fine. “Just migraine—probably from stress or something.”

Their two radios crackled with Atlas’ voice. “Ryan’s coming down for you. Would you kindly get a move on?”

Jack got up, still shielding his eyes from the lights. “Yep, yeah, just—“ he blinked his eyes open, cringed a little and then did it again. He’d broken out in a cold sweat, his fingers were tingling. “Okay. Sorry, onward and stuff,” Jack said and grabbed the satchel to stuff his sweater in to. 

Jack felt Elizabeth’s intense eyes on the back of his neck. He shook it off. It was just stress. The situation they were in was terrible. He’d rather feel sick than have uncontrollable rage, he supposed. It was just stress of all this sudden fighting and bloodshed. It’s not like he’d ever been in this situation before.

_Right?_

“So, tell me all about Columbia,” Jack said when they left the bar. “It sounds pretty amazing. Like this place. Was it a shithole like this place too?”

Booker left that to Elizabeth. She was better with the details. The child came to walk beside him as Jack and Elizabeth talked about Columbia. She pulled on his sleeve very gently. 

Booker looked down at her. Caper looked up at him. “Ser Marshmallow is here. I can smell him. I don’t know if he will still see a Little Sister or not.”

“A Big Daddy, y’say?” Atlas buzzed in at Jack’s hip and Elizabeth’s jacket. “You’re ready to fight one of those, yeah?”

“You first,” Booker snorted. 

“I’m trying to help you, _Mister_ Dewitt,” Atlas snapped, growling. “But if you’d like, you could always save us some time and just go for the Sister.”

“Ha-ha, you’re hilarious,” Booker grumbled back. 

“Let’s just prep for a minute,” Jack said, flipping off his radio. He met Elizabeth’s face and nodded towards her jacket. He waited for her to flip the other radio off before he said, “So. Is he listening to everything we say when those things are on?”

“Likely,” Elizabeth said, nodding. “And he was able to pinpoint both Booker and me on them. So he can’t be too far away.”

“I wish I knew which one was controlling the cameras we’ve seen. I mean, I know, it’s either Ryan or Atlas but I’d like to know if they’re working together or apart.”

“Have you seen the posters about this guy Fontaine?” Elizabeth asked, arms crossed as she watched him think. 

“Starting to sound like it was him and Atlas versus Ryan.”

“But from different directions. Sort of.”

“Maybe one recruited the other?” Jack mused. 

“Be careful, Mister D.” 

That made Elizabeth and Jack break away from their shared musings. They looked as one to Caper, creeping to the corner and peering around it with Booker. He had loaded his shotgun and dug out a couple of Elizabeth’s magnetic bombs. Booker gave the child a peering look when she called him that and then patted her head. “Stay here, Caper.”

“Booker!” Elizabeth started, realizing—

Booker was around the corner and out the door. She heard the shriek of crows and the blasts of gunfire. She heard the guttural beast-roar of the Big Daddy and the screaming of a Little Sister.

“Shit!” Jack suddenly took off at a dead run, snatching up a sledgehammer as he went.

Elizabeth went to the door, forgetting everything else in favor of combat as Booker and Jack went on the attack. Elizabeth sprinted into the fray. At first she thought to get the Little Sister out of harm’s way. But the second Elizabeth went to her—the Big Daddy changed direction immediately. It roared, wheeling away from Booker and Jack and blasting forwards. It smashed his heavy rivet gun into her face and shoulder—or would have.

Jack managed to stop it. One plasmid this place had that Columbia didn’t was Telekinesis. Jack squared his shoulders like a boulder. His hands were clenched into fists as he strained to keep his concentration on the plasmid. The shield absorbed another hit from the Big Daddy—though it knocked Elizabeth to the ground all the same. 

Booker planted the gem-like traps of crystalized lightening all around the brute, then opened fire with the shotgun. Shrapnel and sparks rained back at him and showered Elizabeth with burning embers as she was forced to duck into the corner the Big Daddy had slapped her in to. 

The Big Daddy whirled around, surprisingly fast for something his size. He launched himself at Booker. Jack grabbed Elizabeth’s crossbow and hit the metal daddy with an incendiary tip. It sucked air into the plate, roasting him from the inside while Booker hammered at it from the front. He dropped the crossbow as soon as the beast lurched and went still, running to Elizabeth. “Hey! You okay?”

“I’m fine—thank you for the shield,” she said quickly. Her face was bruised from the air pressure but she appeared unscathed otherwise. “Also, apparently those Big Daddies are tuned to something in the Sisters specifically. Good to know for next time. Don’t go for the Little Sister until he’s done moving for sure. Even with you two here to distract him.” She brushed off her trousers as they walked towards Booker.

He was standing guard by the Sister, who was huddled into a pitiful lump in the corner, cringing away from all of them. Caper sat on her knees between the Sister and Booker. She couldn’t seem to help staring at the younger child. 

Jack stepped forward, reaching for Tenenbaum’s strange plasmid. It was intense to see it. All the memories stored in Adam echoed everywhere when he grabbed into the slug that made the stuff. Their veins lit up like Christmas lights and the candle lights in her eyes dimmed back. A little bit of color returned. Jack reached for his radio. “Tenenbaum? Where can I send the Little Sisters?”

“I have a safe place,” the woman replied, “in the sewers of Olympus Heights. I gather the little ones and the lives I destroyed.”

Caper looked at the Sister. “Masha?”

Masha stared at her. “Where am I?”

“Rapture. Neptune’s Bounty. Do you remember Olympus Heights?”

Masha looked down at her knees, staring at her grey skin in horror. “What _happened_ to me?”

Caper felt something in her chest catch. She stared at the younger girl and didn’t know what to say.

“Some bad people took you,” Jack said, gently touching Caper’s shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault. It was theirs. They stole you.”

“Why only girls?” Elizabeth wanted to know. “Where are all the boys?”

Jack’s radio buzzed again and Tenenbaum’s voice filtered through. “The children of Rapture have been used and abused in ways that I was both a part of and now seek to end. Girls were taken to create Adam, at first from the slums, then lower classes. Then the upper class and wealthy had daughters and sons that disappear.”

“And what were the boys taken for?” 

Tenenbaum hesitated for a moment and said, “Other experiments.”

Booker gave the radio a long, suspicious look. That sounded like it probably meant something terrible. He sat down on a nearby bench to put together a few of Elizabeth’s little devices. She had a growing list of little things she’d invented for him to use in combat. The girl had to be an engineering prodigy or something. She’d probably reverse engineer some of this stuff here in Rapture.

“Do you know who Masha is and if her parents are still alive?” Jack asked.

Tenenbaum did not know but urged them to send Masha to her so she could find out. Every Little Sister had a number code tattooed onto their backs before their slug was implanted, which could be cross-referenced to physical files that the scientist still had. 

“Jesus Christ,” Jack said softly, shaking his head. 

“Can we keep her with us,” Booker asked, dragging his fingers through his hair. "Because, I don't really trust any of these people."

“No, it’s too dangerous,” Elizabeth said, frowning. “But look here, Tenenbaum, we’ll eventually come looking for you in this place—Olympus Heights. And if you’ve harmed any of these girls, I will turn you inside out.”

“That, I would much deserve,” Tenenbaum answered mournfully. “I will await your visit. I would like to see those who save a life instead of take from those who have lost everything.”

“I don’t want her to go to Tenenbaum,” Caper said quietly, almost in a whisper. She started to rock back and forth on her knees. Masha was crouching near her.

Jack looked at the kid. She was shaking, eyes welling up like she was struggling not to cry. “They hurt us. And hurt and hurt and _hurt—“_

“Is this another Little One, I hear.”

“We found a girl, Caper—looks to be about twelve. I think she might have been a Little Sister.”

There was a moment of silence from Tenenbaum. Then, “How did this happen? She aged prematurely after you remove the sea slug?”

Jack blinked. ”Uh, well, no. We found her by accident. She was wandering the halls. She’d clearly been spooked by something. But that was before we even ran into you, doc.”

“What did you _do_ to them?” Elizabeth demanded, suddenly sharply reminded of the Syphon. It was like a punch to the gut.

“Elizabeth,” Booker said, pointedly meeting her eyes. “See that diner over there. Go talk about this in there. These two are literally _right here.”_

Elizabeth sighed. “Right, right. Sorry. I’ll see if I can work out with Tenenbaum how we can help. C’mon Jack.” 

Caper leaned back into the wall when Elizabeth and Jack were gone. “Ser Marshmallow was always nice to me,” she said softly.

“Me too,” Masha whispered. 

Booker sat down against the wall with Caper. They both looked at the Big Daddy. “I’m sorry about him.”

Caper shook her head and laid it against his shoulder. “Ser Marshmallow was always in pain. They all are. They always are. Like Adam-sickness.”

“Still, if you’re mad at me—I would understand, kiddo.”

“He isn’t in pain anymore,” Caper said, turning her peaked face into his sleeve. “I’m glad for that.”

Masha hesitated before sitting on Booker’s other side. All three of them looked at Ser Marshmallow.

“You were good at what you did, Ser Marshmallow,” Booker said, solemnly. “Thanks.” He gave the big guy a lazy salute.

Caper copied him silently. Masha turned her face into Booker's other sleeve to muffle her sobbing.


	4. Our Masha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because seriously, Booker's memories only melded and changed after he went through the portal. So presumably, he initially knew what he was doing.
> 
> \-------------
> 
> Seven long, grueling years and he turned up with nothing. His daughter faded from any memory from the neighbors. Her pinkie rotted away to the bone.

The strange warp closed.

His baby girl’s severed finger fell to the pavement. Booker fell to his knees in the mud. She was gone. Gone. No trace of whatever that had been, no trace of the voices, no trace of that smug piece of shit, Robert Lutece. Gone.

She was just gone. Only blood and her pinkie finger remained. He reached out with shaky hands, touching the wall. But it was just damp, crumbling brick. No portal or window or whatever the fuck that had been. “No….no…”

He thought he’d give her a better life than what he could offer. He was useless without Annabelle. He would make Anna miserable. He was a failure. He hurt people. He’d killed people. Belle was the one who understood and she’d died in their bed. Soaked in blood and sweat, holding Booker’s hand in a vice grip as the birthing process tore her apart inside. 

If there was a God, he was vindictive and cruel.

He would wipe away his debt, his daughter would have a better life with some wealthy bastard and hopefully, she’d never know that her dad was New York wash-up, Booker Dewitt. When she was older—maybe then he’d go to her so she’d at least know who her mother was. Then he would quietly step out of her life. He ruined everything he touched otherwise. Belle was dead but he would give his daughter a better life—

And instead, he suddenly changed his mind, like any man who sees his life falling apart might, so he chased after Lutece; the British prickhead opens a goddamn portal (What the _fuck?!)_ into a brick wall and the scuffle for Anna severs her pinkie and the Brit is gone. And Anna is gone. And Belle is gone.

And the only one left behind, is him.

He spent seven years looking for Lutece and never found a trace of him. All his trails went dead, all leads were cold. It was like the guy had stepped out of a portal, ran into the corner store for five minutes and then bailed. Like he’d never existed at all. It didn’t make any goddamn sense. And how the fuck could he _explain_ to anyone what he’d seen without sounding _crazy_. A portal opened into a goddamn brick wall and they went _through_ it. He still had his daughter’s pinkie, carefully wrapped—trying to figure out how to present this to someone and not get arrested. They would think he’d murdered Anna. Shit, _he_ would think he’d murdered Anna. Or was crazy. There was some strange burning on the pinkie’s knuckle. God, it was so small. But it had charred a sheer deep blue. Booker had seen a lot of burn victims (and made them, unfortunately) and not a goddamn one had ever crisped blue. 

Seven long, grueling years and he turned up with nothing. His daughter faded from any memory from the neighbors. Her pinkie rotted away to the bone. No one spoke to him much, the deeper he got into his own head. The gambling was a distraction, something desperate that would make him focus. That could take him out of his head. Life couldn’t get worse, right? He’d lost everything. What could they take? And he was good at cards and just competitive enough to rile everyone else at the table. 

And, as always, the same song and dance about drink and addiction. The next nine years were dark on Market Street.

And then one day, Robert Lutece fucking _strolls_ into his office.

Booker stared at him for a solid ten seconds in total silence before he slowly put his pen down. _”You.”_ He slowly pushed himself up from his desk.

“Yes, Mister Dewitt. Me. I imagine you aren’t keen to make my acquaintance once again.”

“Oh, on the contrary,” Booker growled, drawing his pistol. “You should definitely tell me why I shouldn’t blow out your fucking kneecaps right now to keep you here.”

“Mister Dewitt, let me explain.”

“Oh, you definitely will. Figure we could spend some quality time together. Got a few questions that need answering.”

“To be sure, you weren’t supposed to see that portal, Mister Dewitt. You were young. We thought to spare you that.”

Booker swallowed hard, suddenly feeling the hot metal of the trigger against his finger. “Fuck you. Oh, fuck _you."_

“I understand your anger—“

“No, you really don’t—“

“—and I also admit that I had a role to play in the unfortunate events of nineteen years ago. I am here to attempt to remedy that mistake.”

Booker’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”

“I can take you to where Anna is but she doesn’t know her name is actually Anna. Our…client named her Elizabeth.”

Booker felt everything in him go cold and still. “She’s still alive.”

“Yes, she is. We can help you get to her but we can’t help you once we get there and the entire city will be waiting for your arrival.”

“But she _is_ there.”

“Yes. She has been imprisoned essentially, on Monument Island in a city called Columbia.” Robert took out a billfold and withdrew a photograph. “I’d say she passes a resemblance to your late wife, though she has your dark hair.”

Booker felt his heart stop, clenching tight in his chest as he stared down at a bright-eyed young lady. He looked back at the scientist. “How do we get there?”

 

 

 

“So this is what we’ve got,” Jack said, spreading some rudimentary blueprints onto the diner’s table. Caper and Masha sat at the bar, spinning quietly on their stools. “Elizabeth worked down some chemicals from a couple of these security bots. Turns out they’re biometrically signatured. They can be manipulated but one has to flood out the old signature.” Jack flipped the bot onto its side. “This casing here—contains a tubing of that Eve substance. It’s mixed with a certain strain of genetic coding, added via Adam injection. Which is how you can create a whitelist for security systems—everyone who works in the cellar gives a drop of blood and the camera warns them if they don’t have clearance to be in other areas. It was a pretty straight-forward, if brutal, system but that sounds like it was basically just a normal Tuesday for this place.”

“So, in theory,” Elizabeth said. “If we empty out the tubing of the accepted genetic material and add our own, we make the cameras work for us. It will detect as a manual override and the system will send out an alert to Minerva’s Den….” Elizabeth shifted to their sketchy map of Rapture. “It tells the system that manual overrides are occurring and that Rapture’s pressure integrity could be compromised. Puts it on alert, which will make them more responsive for us. But reaching the devices themselves is the problem. This place is dark, lots of corners and shadows to make it feel larger than it is. So, what we figure it this.”

Elizabeth uncovered their little team build. She and Jack had been hard at work soon enough, taking over the diner’s bar and tables to build a makeshift workshop. She pocketed her handkerchief and picked up the dart, displaying it to Booker like a prized fruit. “Crossbow darts injected with a small sample of blood from Caper or Masha. The Little Sisters are able to pass by the cameras at will. So either the Adam stores genetic code or the cameras are blind to them by design.”

Booker looked up from working open a tin of beans. “Is it necessary to take blood from them? Why not just us?”

“The Little Sisters have a huge net of genetic code. It might free some of these people.”

“To hunt us down and murder us,” Booker reminded her, pointing his can opener at them.

Elizabeth and Jack exchanged a look. 

“Before we leave this place, sure,” Booker said, sounding exasperated. “But for now? We should just do our own blood.” 

Jack and Elizabeth exchanged another look and his daughter relented. “All right. Then I’ll prepare a set of twelve for my crossbow.”

“I should see if we can make you a mini—like, a little dart shooter,” Jack said, musing at the crossbow and checking the scope. 

Elizabeth collected a few drops of blood from the three of them and Jack mixed it with Eve. The stuff was like a syrup, strange and cold. It made the veins buzz. 

“Jumpin at shadows, Dewitt?” Atlas asked from the radio.

“Not as much as you,” Booker grimaced, emptying the beans out on a chipped plate. He gave Masha and Caper each a spoon. “Poke at that, see if you like it enough,” he told them before he turned to hunt up an ice pick and hammer. He and the iced over freezer were going to have a chat. 

“Fontaine scared everyone who wasn’t him. If any of his leftovers helped you get into Rapture and you turn on boy-o here—”

“We already had this discussion but thanks,” Booker said, rolling his eyes. 

“He’s a good lad.”

“I’m aware,” Booker allowed, watching Jack suddenly jog out to Ser Marshmallow. The young man poked around and then pried something off. He brought it back, holding it up and gesturing to Elizabeth’s crossbow. 

“How is Jack holding up from the plane crash?” Atlas said, tone carefully civil.

“Given that I don't know how he is in normal situations; how would I know?” Booker grunted.

“You’re a father.”

Booker narrowed his eyes. He clipped the radio to his belt as he picked up the hammer to start on breaking the freezer’s seal. “He seems a little tired sometimes. He has bad dreams,” Booker finally allowed.

“Poor lad. He must be a wreck,” Atlas agreed. “It’s not easy to walk into what he has. Probably makes him a little reckless sometimes?”

“Not so uncommon.”

“For young men _and_ women, eh, Dewitt?” 

Booker glanced down at the radio as he dug out a block of chicken legs from the iced-over freezer. 

“I can understand that,” Atlas went on. “You’ve got a daughter. You don’t want anything to happen to her.”

Booker wiped his cheek as some flakes of ice snowed down on him. “You really like hearing your own voice, don’t you?”

“That weren’t a threat, Mister Dewitt. But stay close to her—I always have a need for good people down here. Sounds like you two come as a matched set.”

Booker took the door of the freezer out of the ice. He shook out his hands. “Are you making some kind of offer, Atlas?”

“Help him get to Ryan.”

“Sounds like you and Ryan need to have a heart-to-heart before you escape with your wife and child.”

“We’re both men of action, Dewitt. Ryan became exactly who he said he hated. And now, he’s trapped all of us down here to die for his ego.”

Booker wiped the freezer burn off his hands and headed back into the diner with the chicken legs. He watched Jack lean over Elizabeth’s shoulder. “So why aren’t your wife and child with you?”

“I had to protect them from Ryan,” Atlas admitted. “I couldn’t keep them with me. It was too dangerous. Ryan’s men were out for blood.”

“So are they with other members of your….group?”

“No, I couldn’t spare anyone,” the man grunted, starting to sound a little annoyed. “Moira can handle a splicer or two. Sounds like you know something about that, eh, Dewitt?”

_Aggressive, quick to seize control of conversation, probing for information. Doesn’t like being questioned._

Booker filed these details back subconsciously before he said, “Oh, a bit, I guess.”

“Your Elizabeth or her mother? Was she a real tiger?”

Booker glanced down at the radio. _Feed him a tidbit._ “Bit of both. Elizabeth got it from her, I think.”

“Is she gone now, friend?”

“She is.”

“Must be hard without her around? I know how that is; the loss,” Atlas said in the most sincere voice he could likely make himself summon. 

“Gets easier with practice,” Booker said, flatly, smiling a little at how Annabelle would have laughed and mock-slapped at his shoulder. 

“Well, I don’t want to practice at all,” Atlas confided, chuckling a little ruefully through the static. “I feel like we got off on a wrong foot, Dewitt. At the end, we’re both fathers who care about the ones we love.” 

_Immediate pivot in conversation, sympathetic, drawing parallels to keep communication open._

“That’s all we can hope for,” Booker replied and he flipped the radio off. 

“What’s a ‘booker’?” Caper asked, scraping the plate for her last baked bean. “Is that someone who makes books?”

Booker chuckled, looking back at the girls from the stove. He set the radio down on the counter. “No, that’s called a _bookbinder.”_

“So what’s a ‘booker’?”

“It’s….uh….” Booker gestured uselessly with a match. “It doesn’t mean anything, really,” he said, finally. 

“Maybe your mama liked books,” Masha suggested. “She wants you to do books. To read books.”

“Technically, one who reads books, if you were making the noun ‘book’ into a verb: to book,” Elizabeth called over absently, tucking a wavy curl behind her ear. She tapped one of Jack’s lines, studying them with that analyzing, intent expression. 

Caper and Masha glanced at each other and then at Booker. They broke face when he did, chuckling softly to himself. 

“I bet, I bet—your mama did like books,” Caper informed him.

Booker considered his mother for a moment, an alcoholic who watched her brothers, father, uncles and grandfather all go to the Civil War and never return. He remembered a lot of her arguments with his father, a man he barely knew, save for the back of his hand. Somehow he doubted either of them cared about books but instead he said, “Well, that could be. Elizabeth is the reader now. That’s why she’s the smart one.” 

“Stay in school,” Jack endorsed flatly.

“I don’t think I ever went to school,” Caper mused thoughtfully. “I don’t remember.”

Masha shook her head, curling in on herself. “No, not, not our Masha.”

Everyone paused, watching the poor thing tremble. “Not our Masha. We should not have come here. Trees. Trees,” Masha said wildly, eyes welling up. “Never _seen_ them before. Thought they were monsters. Trees. Trees. Not our Masha.”

Jack seemed to unfreeze first, going to the kid and scooping her right up. “Masha,” he said, low and firm in her ear. “It’s okay. You gotta come back, okay? Masha, its Jack.”

“They’re dead,” Masha choked out.

“I know,” Jack told her quietly, running his fingers into her hair. “I’m so sorry.”

She sobbed into his shoulder and Jack simply held her, stroking her hair and just letting her mourn.

“I’ll go wrangle up some gear for that one,” Booker said quietly, nodding towards Masha. “Keep an eye on the stove, Elizabeth.” 

She nodded, folding her hands and just observing Jack pace around as he soothed Masha. 

At first, Caper approached, lingering by Elizabeth’s side. But big brother Jack was helping Masha. And Elizabeth was protecting them and Mister D went to go find something useful for Masha that they would have to find anyway. She would be useless here. Maybe Mister D was useless here too. Papa Suchong used to say that idle hands were useless. 

_He cut off Nicola’s hand so he could watch it grow back two hundred and two times—_

Caper jerked away from that thought, slinking off to follow Mister D, appearing at his side like a wraith. He showed no surprise at her presence, only advised she keep behind him and keep close to the walls, if possible. She was too young to be pulling Elizabeth-duty but there was no harm if she simply observed.

Though, Booker thought it far more likely that she did a lot more observing than anyone else. Masha was having some kind of memory-transfer flashback—poor kid—and Caper had no idea how to help her. Luckily, Jack stepped in. The kid was a natural big brother at heart. Maybe he’d had kid sisters or something. It made him think of Jack’s wrench. It was wrapped around the handle with an old shirt and it was coated in dried blood. 

Booker frowned as he muscled open some kind of electronic door. Caper ducked down and slipped into a dark shop. “Stay still, Mister D. There’s a Flamingo in here.” She hurried up to pet it and then smiled as Booker jammed a table leg in the door to keep it open. 

“Flamingo, huh,” Booker mused, looking at her thoughtfully. He touched the scorched barrel of the flamethrower that she had somehow disabled and turned it to face the wall. 

“There. Time out,” Caper approved, nodding, mock-sternly.

“Yeah,” Booker echoed, lazily, “no trying to kill us.”

 

 

 

Andrew Ryan stared at the images on the camera. He studied the men when they staggered out of the water. The entire Lighthouse setup was, naturally, intentional. And _naturally_ he’d had the cameras on lockdown since he’d been forced into confinement. He had several radio towers all over Rapture. No one could hide forever. 

But the _girl_. How the _fuck_ did she—he had to stop the video and go back, slowing it down and watching her not exist and then a bolt of white-hot light and suddenly, a water-logged young woman was standing in Arcadia. _That_ was when he fixed cameras on her. Elizabeth Dewitt? No record of an Elizabeth Dewitt, not even among the Little Sisters’ records. And she was needling circles with Atlas, while he kept trying to find out things from Booker Dewitt, her father. Ryan studied the so-called detective. It rang a bell somewhere, far off. Just an inkling and then dismissed it. Still, an interesting pair. Dewitt looked like the kind of man who got things done. Case in point, a plane happens to crash over his goddamn city and everyone presumably died. Except for the girl who could open portals of some kind. Oh and her lumbering, crow-summoning father, who had protected the boy while he got his bearings.

Jack Wyland. No record of parents, no records of name, birth, nothing existed for him in Rapture. And yet, he and Dewitt _had_ used the bathyspheres. Which were all on lockdown so only someone with his genetic code could use them (except the Little Sisters, of course). Perhaps, he had been too hasty in assuming it was CIA or KGB. Perhaps, the threat was closer than he’d thought.

Ryan got up, pacing his window as the printer began to swipe out office paper portraits. 

Jack Wyland used the bathyspheres so must be at least a partial genetic match—so close as cousins or closer. 

Elizabeth Dewitt, clearly an outsider, can open portals to other locations/objects, something like a Little Sister, perhaps? There would be much he’d likely find intriguing about conversing with her for an hour or two

Booker Dewitt, also used the bathysphere. So one or both of the men were related to him in some way. Either way, one likely masked the other in a sphere. Booker was some kind of mercenary or hired body guard. That man was a brute but he was extremely effective. He took on a Big Daddy without a trace of hesitation. He was suspicious of everyone that had spoken to them (and admittedly Ryan’s attempt to have them trapped and murdered probably hadn’t helped) but he was _clearly_ the most concerned about Atlas and Tenenbaum. And Dewitt did not hide that at all. Ryan could admire people with that kind of directness. Perhaps he could be swayed. He wasn’t a parasite like Atlas. And the daughter—Elizabeth. Whatever that power was that she possessed, combined with her very logical intelligence not often clouded by sentiment; he could do business with these two, yes.

Atlas, fiend, coward, liar, parasite.

Tenenbaum, Nazi death camp survivor, harvested Adam, a true prodigy. But with no basic comprehension of how money worked and even less competence when dealing with people. Anyway, she was now hoarding the Sisters and had found a way to make them human again. Amazing what the woman would reveal when she forgot that someone could be listening. 

Bill was the only one who laughed. A pity that he was dead. If only the man could have just stuck it out instead of turning on him. Thieves and traitors and cowards and parasites but Bill was always careful to advise equality. 

Suchong, the Korean Doctor Frankenstein and Big Daddies were his monsters. It had begun with that unlucky bastard, Johnny Topside (the public’s nickname for him, not Ryan’s) and ended with….well, there was no way of knowing. For all he knew, that fool Sophia Lamb was still hiding down there in the bowels of Rapture, torturing people. 

That made Andrew Ryan turn away from his wall, where the black-and-white pictures stared back at him. He went to his window and gazed over the cemetery of his city. “It wasn’t supposed to be like that. Rapture should have been the culmination of the best and the brightest.”

He whirled around, staring at the tack board and the faces. 

They all stared back.


	5. Fortress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack suddenly lunged up from the floor. “Eleanor!” He cast about frantically, and then suddenly seemed to realize he was awake. _(The inbetween place where everything was warm and dark and smelled like sweet hay, fresh cut in the barn.)_ “Eleanor….” and then fell back against the wall.
> 
> \------------------------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And by the by, I'm moving from Indiana to Colorado at the end October 2017. So lots of things are getting into motion right now. I'll be busy and very stressed out, probably.

That fateful day in July 1912 saw Booker examining the rift in the air. It was carefully contained in some kind of field, just like the other one. His heart was pounding at the familiar scent of blood and sulfur that had haunted him every night for nineteen years. 

“Understand, Mister Dewitt. Once you step through, there’s no turning back.” Rosalind stood on the other side of the rift. She appeared to be in some sort of motel room or an office. 

“There are side effects,” Robert went on, eyes steady on the detective. 

“Such as?” Booker asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Insanity, at times,” said Rosalind airily.

“Blindness, death, possible dissemination to other realities.”

Booker tongued his cheek. “Oh.”

Rosalind sighed. “What that _means_ is that your memories may collapse on themselves. In the middle of the scramble—“

“—your memories might rearrange. You’ll remember things in the wrong order, or other things that never happened at all.”

Booker looked at the portal, then at Robert. “Is that how—you two. You aren’t twins, are you?”

“We are not, Mister Dewitt.”

“But what we are,” Rosalind said tersely, “is running out of time. We need to move. Either come with us to save your daughter or stay in New York and rot, Mister Dewitt.”

Booker scowled at her, gave Robert one last look and then stepped up to the portal. “Wait, then you should hold these.” Booker removed the picture of Anna, his pistol, a few other odds and ends from his pockets. "If I get dismembered..." and here, Booker paused, scanning his mind for anyone he might trust in finding his daughter, in the event of his death, and sighed. "If I die, you--you need to _find_ someone else. If she'd being held against her will and I die...find someone else." 

Robert’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully for just a moment and then he offered a small cigar case. “It will be returned on the other side, Mister Dewitt.”

Booker scowled all the same and took a deep breath. He reached into the portal and then Rosalind was yanking him through. He jolted, like receiving an electric shock. Jesus, shit—his eyes were like fire. Like pins were being shoved into his temples. His muscles seized and he collapsed. Rosalind pushed him away from her, letting him fall, just as Robert stepped through and turned the machine off.

She crossed her arms, staring down at Dewitt. “Doesn’t look like he’s going into shock.”

“I hope you at least didn’t make him land on his head.”

“Well, have we accounted for that?” Rosalind shot back.

“No—but he _did_ suggest that I hold his things. Usually _we_ suggest that first.”

Rosalind rolled her eyes. “Let’s just get him out to the boat. At this rate, he’ll wake up by the time we get to the Lighthouse.”

“I do wish we didn’t have to throw him to the sharks right away.”

“He is just a variable, Brother. You can’t get attached to them.”

“He’s still a man.”

“He’s a mannequin.” Rosalind pulled on her rain coat. “Now, let’s go. You can have the pleasure of carrying him to the boat.”

“I assumed,” Robert groused back, putting an arm under the detective and pulling him up in a fireman’s carry. He passed the cigar box to Rosalind. 

 

 

 

Elizabeth ran her thumb along the engraved pendant. The lines of the somber cage were cold, like the glass that kept the ocean out. She could sit for hours when she couldn’t sleep, thumb tracing the engraving of the cage, her fortress. She’d pondered the meaning of the cage ever since Booker had picked it at the boardwalk. Part of her had listed towards the bird, like Songbird—her old friend, her protector, but that was poisoned now. Songbird would have killed them both. To be the Songbird was to be the monster. He was terrifying in a way Elizabeth had never considered before that fateful day when Booker literally fell into her life. He was the monster that killed Booker so many times. If the priest didn’t drown him, it was the fair. If the raffle coppers didn’t kill him, it was the magnetic Shield that had torn that poor Booker apart. Rosalind then corrected so the next time _(next time, Jesus Christ)_ he might get to the crows. All the times when he probably died—that must be what had pulled objects across that plane. Things he had tried or used in other realities and she was able get enough of an impression to change its places, pull an object through, take command of a botgunner and so on. She could protect him while he fought. 

That’s right. Right. Elizabeth took a deep breath, absently touched the cold metal to her lips. Because her pinkie was severed, she was able to help him. Tilted things his way. Their way. Whatever way. A cage was a cage, one can’t deny that. But if you think of it as a cage, you feel trapped and helpless. If you think of it as a fortress, then its yours to command.. 

It had helped ground her. If she thought of Columbia as her cage, her fortress—then she learned to use it against Comstock. She found weapons where there were none—like a scary agent of Luck. 

The radio buzzed and an unfamiliar voice said, “Bea? I’m heading into Arcadia. Where are you?”

There was scratchy static from a woman’s voice that growled, “Elijah? Son of a bitch—are you okay?” 

“You shouldn’t say that, you know. You’re not _that_ bad,” the male voice responded. He sounded young, a little teasing. 

Elizabeth straightened up from her little nest of blankets in an old armchair, drawing the radio closer to listen. 

The woman barked a laugh. “Smartass. I’ll meet you in Arcadia. Try not to split anymore hallways until I find you.”

"You're one to talk."

Neither the woman nor her son spoke again. It was a stark reminder, Elizabeth mused, that it was very easy to think of the splicers as not even human. Shoot first, ask questions later. But there were still non-crazy people in Rapture just trying to get by. There were bound to be people in the shadows, trying to explore ways out of Rapture. Elizabeth could not always see doors from people she hadn’t met (or wasn't genetically linked to, like Booker). That was more complex, more abstract. But if enough people knew about an event—like one of the Big Daddies getting lost during a test and never coming back or Johnny Topside, essentially held captive in Rapture when he accidentally stumbled upon it during a dumbbell dive--it left echoes behind. Many knew or suspected that he was donated to the Big Daddy program. All those same thoughts could leave an impression. It was difficult to explain—but the tears she brought into this reality for Booker was a similar principle. If they did it enough times in other realities, if something existed enough times in other realities, it left an impression that she was able to pull through. 

Elizabeth sat up in the armchair, eyes falling on Jack. His sweater was gone. He’d pilfered a t-shirt and a jacket from a corpse-infested shop. He was quite fit, muscled arms and chest. The chains were such a curious choice for tattoos. He was always so tense—though he played the relaxed bit well. And he was constantly pushing himself to support Booker. That was interesting—he was clearly skilled but he deferred to Booker’s experience. And he didn’t hesitate to help the man. He was also very bright. He took to the technology here extremely fast. And he was much more adept at dealing with the robotics, even as scattered as he was after that awful headache he’d had. He’d been off for hours. Nothing Elizabeth could point out, exactly, just….off. 

She held her blanket close and walked over to fix his, pulling it up to his shoulder and studying the stubble just starting to fill in. Her neck prickling had her turning her eyes, feeling Booker’s on her. She studied her father as she meandered over to join him by the carefully contained pit fire. “What happened when you got into the docking bay? Where did you meet him?”

 

 

 

Booker wheezed when he broke the surface. He cast around immediately. He _knew_ this was a terrible idea. Drowning, again. Goddammit. He flailed at the surface, slapping at waves and catching the glimmer of gasoline and oil. “Elizabeth!” He couldn’t see her. He couldn’t see anything. Just flames. Everything was burning orange-white against the water. 

The circling light caught his eye high above. This must be the place. Elizabeth had warped them into the cargo hold just before impact because opening a tear in the middle of the Atlantic was a potentially dangerous idea if they missed their mark. It was actually really tough finding out information about Rapture when they’d arrived in New York City. He’d thought to show her around the Big Apple—but it was so drastically different in 1960 that he had no frame of reference for it anymore. It had made him feel a little lost, suddenly a stranger in his own town. 1912 suddenly seemed a long time ago. So he'd had to learn about New York all over again.

Anyway, Elizabeth had found out about Rapture somehow (honestly, he didn't even ask how anymore) and they’d taken about a month to get supplies, learn about the 1950s, read up on World War Two (holy shit) and found out the general coordinates to Rapture. Very secretive, this bunch. It made Booker a little uneasy but Elizabeth was so excited to learn and see so many things and she was collecting tons of books. And…they didn’t have to stay or cause trouble or get involved. They could go see and then leave. 

Then had come the vision of a plane and a lighthouse, calling them. She worked out the general coordinates, looked it up at the library, trying to find any kind of visual that might spark something that another self might have seen. But all she saw was the plane. So she made him shave and look respectable and they endured an airport _(“This place is giving me a headache, Elizabeth.”)_ long enough to look around so Elizabeth could get a feel for the airplane’s layout. Then, at the motel room, she opened a tear and took them into the plane’s hold. 

Booker heard screaming and grabbed Elizabeth to him, tucking her into his shoulder and protecting her head. The plane lurched and then everything in the hold began to slide. The soldier grabbed onto a support beam with his free arm and then they hit the water.

The impact ripped her away. He grabbed for her automatically, felt her cling to his fingertips and then she was gone. So Booker was slowly making his way to the lighthouse alone. He grimaced. _If I'd known what I was in for in Columbia, would I have turned around and left?_ Booker could hope not. Though, statistically, it was probable. Ugh. Goddammit. He drug himself out of the water and shook off like a dog coming in from the rain. “Elizabeth!” He saw a small form, barely ripples, getting larger as it neared.

But it wasn’t Elizabeth. It was a young man. He was wheezing, struggling to rise onto the steps. Booker went to him, grabbing the kid and holding him up. The boy threw up an abundance of sea water and sagged down onto the steps. 

“Did you see a young woman out there?” Booker demanded.

The kid smeared his hair out of his face, taking some unsteady breaths. “What?”

“A young woman? Long dark blue coat, blue eyes, dark hair, pale skin?”

The kid looked at him and then behind them, where the plane’s fuel tank had exploded, igniting the dark in bright licks of flame. He looked back at Booker and just shook his head mournfully. 

Booker took a deep breath, mouth pressed into a thin line. All right. All right. This was Elizabeth they (he) was talking about. She could open portals and….whatever. She was half a goddamn god. She was twenty years old. She could handle herself. He had to trust her. Even if all he could think of was her bloated, shredded corpse slowly sinking into the black of the ocean—

“I’m…maybe she’s already…in the lighthouse?” The kid suggested suddenly, pointing limply at a building, where a door stood ajar.

Booker did a double-take at him. Holy shit, the kid was—he couldn’t have been older than Elizabeth herself. Shit. Shit. Booker took a stiff breath. _Trust your daughter. She’s smarter than you._

“Sorry, son. What’s your name?”

“Jack,” the kid managed.

Booker helped him stand and they staggered up to the massive doors. He didn’t like the feeling it gave him, walking through doors like these again. Somehow, he hadn’t thought it would be so agitating. A light flickered on. Jack ducked instinctively. Booker let the kid go and drew his pistol. He tapped Jack’s shoulder, pointing to his eyes _(be careful, follow me)._ The giant, ominous face of a man loomed over them as they edged down the ramp way. It looked gold. Christ. Just like Comstock's (obligatory fuck-that-guy). That big monstrosity was rivaled only by Fink’s down in the slums. Right. While knowing there were similar realities to their own out there, running into one and having it be totally unfamiliar was a bit abstract in his head. He shouldn’t make assumptions, right? His hands had gone cold and clammy because, at the end of the day, sometimes he wasn't sure if Booker was the decent him or if Comstock was. 

“Art, Industry and Science,” Jack read quietly, looking at the massive gold medallions on the wall. 

_Well, that’s a good start, right? It’s not religion._ Booker touched the metal. It was ice-cold. “What is this place?” He mused it aloud more for Jack’s benefit than his own.

“I dunno…crazy—this is just in the middle of the Atlantic? You think it’s some kind of secret military base?”

“Something,” Booker said thoughtfully. “I wonder who turned the lights on.”

“Whoa, what’s this?”

Booker turned to look and saw the kid standing in front of….something that reminded him of the horrible chair he’d been strapped to when he went to Columbia. But it was bigger, like a booth. Six or seven people could sit comfortably. 

But that was it. There was nothing else in the lighthouse. No Elizabeth.

“Hey, there’s a radio,” Jack said, grasping hold of a metal bar and turning it. The booth rumbled, the bar blinked and lit up green. The pod opened and Jack hopped inside to examine it. “It’s getting power and everything. Maybe this thing is…some kind of…way station for radio operators transmitting across the Atlantic? Solar powered somehow, maybe?”

"What?" Booker asked. 

"Like ham radio?" Jack attempted to clarify.

"Oh, uh, could be." Booker hesitated, looked up at the cold eyes of the statue to make a mental note to ask Elizabeth about ham-radios and then back at the pod. 

Jack fiddled with the dials. “There’s something broadcasting. I can’t quite pick it up. If we can get to a tower or something, we can radio for help. Otherwise nothing else we can do until the Navy comes or something, right?”

_Trust Elizabeth, Booker. She’s smart. She’s a lot smarter than you._

He took a deep breath and stepped into the pod. “All right. Yeah. Let’s…try it. What does this lever do? Create steam power of some kind?” 

"I dunno. Let's find out." Jack pulled the lever. It buzzed in his palm, searing hot for just a flash, and then the lever's little frosted glass panels turned green. The pod shuddered like an unbalanced washing machine. “Oh—oh shit, shit, shit, we’re going dow—we’re going _down!”_

“Yeah, no shit.” Booker jumped up to try and look out the pod's window (suddenly thankful that he’d been alone when he went to Columbia so no one saw him freaking out). Then Andrew Ryan's propaganda reel half-blinded him and so he was forced to watch the rest of it with Jack. By this point, they were both feeling surly as Andrew Ryan high-school principled them in the art of true capitalism. Dog eat dog. Do what you want without fear of persecution. The weak will not hold them back. It's gonna be one long, wild party. You know, like the 1860s.

Jack seemed more interested in the advertisements. "What's _Incinerate_ , exactly? Some kind of...lighter-thimble? You wear it and your finger lights up?" 

Booker startled, looking behind him at the poster but then the film went off and they saw Rapture, laid out before them like a shrine. A temple of extremes. Booker would reflect later that the sensation of coming over the cusp and seeing Rapture was weird. Like he was intruding, watching his own story unfold as Jack stared at the city that spread out before them on the ocean floor. Incredible. The neon lights tinted the kid’s pale skin green, making his eyes look hollow and gaunt for just a moment as their submersible followed its track into a sort of docking bay. 

And then some poor bastard got gutted and Booker shoved the kid behind him—though Jack surprised him when he initially resisted. The two ended up each with a hand on the other’s shoulders, staring up at the ceiling together. Booker pointed his pistol at the mutilated person with fucking hooks _(what the fuck, seriously)_ before it shrieked and ran off. 

“Holy _shit,”_ Jack said, swallowing hard. “What the _fuck_ was that?”

“Okay, change of plans,” Booker said quietly, firmly. “Do you have any combat training?”

“No,” the kid answered. “I grew up on a farm. I worked with horses. I know hunting rifles but…I mean, unless there’s a bat or something down here—”

“Okay, okay, I gotcha. Just watch my back and I’ll watch the front.”

So it looked like things had already gone to shit here. Great. Not part of the plan. If he'd known Rapture was already fucked he wouldn't have allow Elizabeth to bring them here. But she'd only seen Rapture as some beautiful, ethereal underwater metropolis. Not this graveyard. Had no Elizabeth made it to...this Rapture?

And then Atlas spoke to them. Asked the kid to kindly pick up the radio—he didn’t seem concerned with how they’d survived the plane crash. He started almost immediately on his spiel about his family which raised all kinds of red flags for Booker considering this guy had no idea who they were so why was he so eager to trust them? Was he a grifter? If this Atlas had so many people, why didn't _they_ just go fight it out with Ryan. Why did Atlas even want them involved? And while these questions were popping up in his head to be filed for later, he didn't take the moment to step in. 

Jack took it. “Oh, well, sure--you help us get to a radio tower and we help you find your family. I mean—what else can we do? I guess?” He looked at Booker.

Booker sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Goddammit. Fine. But we need to find Elizabeth first.”

“If there was someone else on the plane that you’re looking for—I’m sorrier than you can ever know, friend,” Atlas told him gently. “But that you two somehow survived is a goddamn miracle.”

“She’s alive,” Booker growled, eyes narrowing.

“I know you want to think that, lad—“

“You don’t know Elizabeth.”

“You don’t know Rapture and I’m sure you’re a real Davy Crochett but if you two don’t listen to me, you’ll die and then all three of us will be fucked.”

Booker eyed the radio. “Then, Jack—it was Jack, right? I’m going to go find Elizabeth. You can come with me or you can go off on your own. I’m not going to make you do one thing or the other.”

Jack barked out a laugh. “I’ll stay with you. Ha, not really that keen to get my guts spilled and then stabbed in the back by these psychos. If she’s down here—we can look for her while we search the place. We’ll need supplies anyway, right? Not like we can just stroll through this place. I mean, Atlas--you sent your guy Johnny in alone to meet us and those maniacs followed him right in. So I assume you are not our all-seeing eye?”

“True enough,” Atlas was forced to admit. “Then once you done that, you—“

A chunk of the plane slammed into the glass hallway.

“And welcome to Rapture,” Atlas scowled over the radio. 

“Oh _shit!”_ Booker grabbed Jack by the shirt and shoved the kid ahead of him. “Go. GO!”

“Oh, fuck—“ Jack scrambled on the tile and corrected, head pounding, fingers tingling. He staggered around a chunk of someone's seat and a fresh body and suddenly his mouth tasted like ash. Booker shoved him through the air lock and whirled around to pull the lever. 

The door closed. Both men stood there a moment and then jumped when the wall of water, glass and metal smashed into the airlock door. 

“Goddammit!” Booker whirled around and Jack followed, sprinting through some sort of lobby area. Every person-shaped thing tried to murder them. Just like Columbia only these fuckheads were totally out of their goddamn minds. They didn’t even seem to consider the water. They were just mindless to it. Booker heard the water rumble and then burst through the airlock. The people screamed when it hit them. Then there was no sound at all.

Jack found the elevator first. He whirled around, grabbing Booker by the back of his vest and hauling him into the cramped closet before yanking the Up lever. The detective was surprised at the strength. The kid was a _lot_ stronger than he looked, even for a farmhand. The elevator took them up.

“What the hell is wrong with these people?” Booker said as they hit the second floor and were immediately set upon like roaches. Mutilated, brutalized people with bulging faces and sagging eyes. Most of them only had guns or clubs or makeshift weapons and not a goddamn one would listen to reason. Booker tried to yell out as they ran, tried to order them to stand down—but they didn’t. They were relentless and vicious, like rabid dogs on the hunt. 

“Hey, Davy Crockett—uh—what’s your name?” Jack asked when they finally got through the bulkhead. 

“Booker Dewitt.”

“Okay, Dewitt, do you know who the fuck Andrew Ryan is? Besides a guy that just tried to have us murdered for wandering into this insane asylum?”

“Got me,” Booker muttered. “I’m a…bounty hunter by trade.” Elizabeth had told him that was pretty much as close to the truth as they could get. Without raising weird questions. Not too weird, anyway.

Jack nudged a corpse over and lifted a machine gun off it. “Jesus Christ….all these dead.”

That was when they heard that eerie singing; spooky as a haunt house, this place. It was too weird to ignore, too unsettling, too....something that made Booker's mouth taste coppery and made Jack's nose itch. 

The detective and the farmhand looked at each other and then followed the voice. It was thin, reedy but it wasn’t exactly unhinged. It wasn’t purely madness. It was…something else. And when they saw the little ghost-kid with her filthy clothes and hair and greyish skin, she just looked lost. A child, perhaps abandoned to this dark place. 

It was almost unconscious, how everything in Booker eased. He became gentler, voice lowering when he spoke to the girl, kneeling down in front of her. Like Elizabeth after she’d killed Fitzroy. _A piece of her never quite left Lady Comstock’s Aerodrome._

But then they were being shot at again and he had to help Jack and in the meantime, the girl ran off. She was like a shadow, disappearing into the dark.

 

 

Elizabeth leaned on Booker’s shoulder a little. “And then she came and found me as I was coming out of Arcadia. She asked if we were knights.”

“Knights?” Booker blinked. “Huh.”

“You know, sometimes the way they talk…it’s like they’re seeing something that the rest of us aren’t.”

“Like a Tear?”

"I'm not sure but it's…like they’re hearing music that we can’t. They’re seeing the world differently from others. It’s something strange with how these slugs affect them, I guess, but its a little unsettling.” She looked sidelong at him.

“I suppose after whatever they’ve been through, we can assume any rational person would be insane or close to it.”

“At least they’re not so pale and grey. That’s fading.”

“They bother you?” Booker asked, not accusing at all, lowering his voice and gently putting a hand on her shoulder. 

“What’s been done to them is….it reminds me of Comstock’s...but its....” and then she shook her head silently. 

Booked glanced sidelong at her, watching her eyebrows pinch together in the dim firelight. She was anxious again, needed to remember where she was and why it mattered. Needed to be grounded in reality because she was, no doubt, experiencing a full-body flashback without the visual hallucinations. He put an arm around her slender shoulders and tucked her into his collarbone, leaning back onto the couch. He gently stroked her hair, letting her curl up and silently shake. She held onto his shirt tightly, eyes screwed shut—smelling cold metal and electricity, tasting them in her mouth. The spinal tap to force her cooperation—

_—felt like I was dying each time—_

_But I didn't._

Right. She was here with Booker (her father) and they worked together. They were a good team and he had her back. And all the creeps who had taken photographs of her in her tower were dead. Dead as dead doornails. Dead as Hamlet. Dead as…

“Booker?”

“Hmm?” He stopped stroking her hair to show that he was listening.

“What was my mother like?”

She felt Booker tense, caging up around her. She didn’t look up at him and slowly he relaxed a little, though his grip had tightened. He took a deep, silent breath. She felt his chest rise and fall. 

“I don’t know how much would be the same as Lady Comstock—“

“Booker—just…as if I’ve never met her.”

She felt him nod, calloused palms warm and restless for a moment and then settling back into place. He was rattled but he hadn’t refused. So she simply waited.

“Her name was Annabelle Watson,” he said slowly. She imagined how his eyes would narrow in, turn dark, like they did whenever he remembered something painful. “We met in New York City in 1889 when I was fifteen years old—“

Jack suddenly lunged up from the floor. “Eleanor!” He cast about frantically, and then suddenly seemed to realize he was awake. _(The inbetween place where everything was warm and dark and smelled like sweet hay, fresh cut in the barn.)_ “Eleanor….” and then fell back against the wall.

Booker slid away from Elizabeth, jumping over the couch to go to him. “Jack? Jack? Hey, buddy? Hey? Eyes on me.”

Jack’s glazed expression cleared abruptly, focusing in on him. “Booker.” He blinked owlishly.

“Jack? You okay?”

Jack swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “What—what’s wrong?”

Booker studied him. “I think you had a nightmare, Jack. You jumped up, do you remember?”

Jack managed to shake his head as he sat up against the wall. “N-no. Sorry if I woke you.”

“Do you have nightmares a lot?” Elizabeth asked gently, kneeling down beside Jack and wiping his brow with her sleeve.

That seemed to make him self-conscious. The young man put a hand on the wall to get up and Elizabeth slid right under his arm to help him stand before Booker could think to offer. She put a hand on his chest to steady him and then stepped away. Masha and Caper peeked out of the large linen closet they’d claimed as a fort while they gathered supplies in Neptune’s Bounty. 

They all watched as he gathered himself. 

Jack cleared his throat. “Sorry. I. Uh—no. I don’t remember. I mean, I don’t remember my dreams, usually.”

“Who’s Eleanor?” Elizabeth asked. 

Jack looked at her blankly. “I don’t know. That’s the name I said?”

“Twice and then you woke up, I think.”

Caper tilted her head at that distant bell that rang. _Who's Eleanor…_

Masha brightened. “Oh! I know Eleanor!”


	6. Hint of Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music was: Eleanor's Lullaby : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1rWEuTwlzQo&index=2&list=PLQuOKHNudkmd8XwtZosj0WXzYWpuHjTxz
> 
> Also, Papa!Booker dads his kids around a bit.
> 
> All the Little Sisters like going up to Jack and being all: BOOP! 8D
> 
> \---------------------------------------------------  
> “Make sure you go see Eleanor,” Masha told him, pushing on his nose.
> 
> “I will, I’ll find her. She’s your big sister, right?” 
> 
> “She saw you,” Caper told him, “in the Dark House.”
> 
> \---------------------------------------------------

They all looked at Masha.

“Who is she, Masha?” Elizabeth asked gently.

“Eleanor is our big sister. She talked to us sometimes without her lips. She’s in Persif’nee.”

Elizabeth peered at the child, glancing at the sketchy map, considering the naming conventions of Rapture. “What was that place?”

Masha looked uncertain of the question, she glanced up at Caper.

Caper stepped out of the linen closet. “It’s. It’s down below. Bad people go there. And good people, sometimes.”

“Like a dungeon or prison?” Booker asked, gently directing them towards the couch.

“Oh! Persephone!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “Queen of the Underworld—of course! That makes sense.” (Booker fought a tiny smile.)

“How do you know she’s there, Masha?” Jack asked, leaning forward to warm his hands by the fire. 

“Cause she told me. Told us. Me and Natalia and Annie and Tysha and Ling.”

“So she was a Little Sister?” Elizabeth ventured.

“Mmm-hmm,” Masha nodded, dark eyes going down into the shadow. “And then she wasn’t anymore.”

Booker picked up one of the radios. “Hey, Atlas. What do you know about Persephone?”

It took a few moments before he responded, sounding a little tired. “Ryan’s prison. He sent people there when they ran afoul him hard enough.”

“So clandestine killings stopped and Ryan began to take prisoners instead? Why?” Booker pressed.

“Some suspect he had a hand in with Tenenbaum and Suchong—Ryan’s other little pet nutjob—in creating the Big Daddies.”

“So test subjects,” Jack said to the firepit, closing his eyes and rubbing his fingers into them. “Holy shit.” 

“And then there was the plasmid business, of course. All kinds of side effects. They destroyed our bodies.”

“So what you’re telling us is, the people of this place did brutal experiments on children and on prisoners and all of you stood by and let it happen until _who_ exactly attacked the Kashmir on New Year’s Eve? Nobody seems quite clear on that, Atlas. Was it you or Fontaine?” Booker replied, hackles coming up and eyes looking stormy.

“You don’t understand why people came to Rapture, Dewitt.”

“To be better than someone else,” Booker growled. “To do what they wanted without fear of reprisal. How long have you been in Rapture, Atlas?”

“Booker,” Elizabeth said, touching his arm. “Atlas just wants to get out of here and we want to help Jack. We can’t just leave the Little Sisters like this.”

“Elizabeth, I recall us having a very particular conversation just like this, the first time we met Chen Lin. Whether or not it was a good idea for us to start messing around and where fault lies when we start crossing lines like this.”

“Booker—“

The radio flooded with static. “Do you not understand that the rules of the world apply to you as well? Are you mad or something?” Atlas demanded. “You think you’re going to just walk out and float to the top, do you, darling? You’re buried here, same as us now.”

“You’ve seen me prove that that’s not true,” Elizabeth said, voice cool.

“Then why did you arrive the same time as a plane crash?”

“I can provide you a demonstration, if you like?” Elizabeth started to bristle.

“I can be good at plasmids too. Maybe I could give _you_ one, love,” the pitch in his voice dropped a little when he said it.

Elizabeth frowned, not sure she understood (words didn’t match the tone) and then Booker gently took the radio from her palm. “How spliced up are you compared to the people on the ground?” Booker asked casually.

There was a beat of silence. “Don’t indulge, myself. Drives them howling mad eventually. Once they’re hooked on the Adam, it’s all downhill from there.”

_And yet, that’s the first thing he had us do._

“And your wife, Moira?”

“Course not! We were poor to start and then Patrick sees the other tykes with their goddamned Peppa Plasmids—the little loony cartoon girl at the Gardens—but once they hit puberty, sometimes their bodies rejected the plasmids. Tore them apart from the inside. Horrible, horrible stuff. But people would pay or people would sell their little ones to Tenenbaum and the like. Adam makes people go mad. Now you may have seen some posters of me, some of the broadcasts, the propaganda from Ryan, the skeletons and secrets of my mistakes and choices—but I’m done with all that. I just want out. I want to see the daylight again. I want to show Patrick something besides death and darkness.”

For a long moment, no one spoke, and then Jack took the radio. “We’ll help you. We just want to be careful and help people if we can.”

Atlas took a shaky breath. “Then you’re what’s been missin from Rapture, lad.”

Jack stiffened, head pounding again, breaking out in a cold sweat again. _(What happened in the barn? The place where there were stalls for animals. The barn. Right?)_ He flipped off the radio and clenched his fingers, trying to make the pins and needles go away.

“All right, fine,” Booker allowed. “He says his family is in the docking bay, let’s get through the smuggler tunnels and finish it.”

“Then we find Eleanor?”

Elizabeth and Booker both looked at Jack when he said it. 

His earnest face seemed suddenly anxious. “I would like to find her. I feel I like we should. But I don’t know if I can do it alone.”

“Of course, Jack,” Elizabeth reached out and touched his hand, studying his face. “We’ll help you.”

Jack found himself caught for a moment, staring back into those vibrant eyes and suddenly getting a chill up his spine. He felt transparent, like those sky-blues were peering right into him, seeing something he didn’t. 

And then he tore himself away to glance at Booker and the detective simply waved a hand and shrugged. “She’s the boss.” He took out his pipe to chew on. 

“Also, Atlas _is_ trying to help us, even if just for now—so can we slow it down on the interrogation, Booker?” Elizabeth raised her eyebrows and folded her arms.

“Probably not,” Booker replied, sounding bored, biting down on the pipe and then taking a pinch of tobacco. Caper appeared at his side. He did a slight double-take and then continued, motions easy and practiced. The young girl simply wanted to observe, it seemed. He slowed his fingers, watching her study how he packed his pipe with loose tobacco. 

“Booker—you don’t catch flies with vinegar. He might have useful information he could give us.”

“Which would go a lot quicker if you’d let me handle it,” Booker said, leveling his gaze at her. “You don’t understand people like Atlas. He’s different from Fink and Fitzroy.”

“We’re not _murdering_ anyone unless they attack us first!” Jack snapped. “Otherwise, how the fuck are we any better than the monsters who hurt them—“ he glanced at the children and then away, rubbing his wrists.

“Papa Suchong didn’t get splattered until he hit Maria cause Ser Arthur saved her,” Caper said, watching the fragrant tobacco smoke lilt blue and wispy over their heads. “He went all over everywhere.”

Booker looked at Caper’s peaked face. _Justice is relative._ What a sad thing for a child to know. Where the strong would not be held back by the weak. Where they would, instead, go for the smallest and weakest among them, then steal and brutalize them. He let his pipe sit on his knee and felt Caper rocking back and forth on her heels because her fingers were pinched into the very edge of his sleeve. As if to remind herself that she was still alive but also afraid he would notice. 

Masha shuddered. “We have to be ready and tired for bed. We have to be ready and tired for bed. We have to be ready and tired for bed we have to be ready and tired for bed. Because the caterpillar princess needs a new crown…” her neck was unnaturally limp for a moment.

Jack, Elizabeth and Booker all looked at Masha.

“C’mon Masha. Sleepies are coming for you,” Caper murmured but when she started to go around the chair, Booker rose and went to scoop Masha up in one arm. 

The child buried her almond brown eyes in his shirt and Booker gestured for Caper to take his hand and he walked them into the back office.

“I’ll take watch,” Jack said quietly.

“Jack—“

“I want to trust Atlas and I want to trust you,” he interrupted. “Booker is suspicious, I get it—“

“Booker is suspicious of everyone. Though, usually for a good reason. But things are also not always what they seem.”

“So what do we do?” Jack huffed, sounding a little impatient.

“Put our back to the sea.” Elizabeth looked into the dim lights of the ocean beyond the thick glass. It made her miss starlight. She’d been so close to the stars for so long and now she couldn’t see them at all. 

Jack felt something come over him, a sort of awareness that made her glow a bit in the dim light of the Atlantic. She was so….her eyes were so bright and intelligent. For a foggy moment, he was aware very suddenly that she smelled warm, like linen, like sunshine. Like a windy day. Jack started to lift his hand and then hesitated, for it was wrapped in blood-soaked bandages, of course, to keep his grip from slipping on his wrench. He stared down at the bloody rags for a long moment before he unwound them.

“Jack? What’s wrong?”

He dropped the strips of fabric on the floor and then stepped towards her. She only looked up curiously, at first. But then he took a second step and suddenly her eyes scattered a little, sizing him up as her boot scuffed against a chipped china plate in the corner. He touched the side of her face there in the blanketing shadows, studying her for a moment and then pulled away. He rubbed his sandy-brown hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to—sorry.”

_Someone reaching in the barn_

He shook himself. “I’m gonna go walk a loop.” And he whirled around and hurried away, looking agitated with himself.

Elizabeth watched him go and glanced towards the shop they were holing up in for the night. Booker was still in the back, she could see him through the open door, peering out at her. She sauntered back into the office area, arms folded and leaned against the wall. Elizabeth glanced into the doorway, where the children were curled up in a small, soft nest that Booker had made up for them. They had Booker’s jacket lying over them. It made Elizabeth smile a little when she glanced at her….at him. 

He raised his eyebrows. _You all right?_

“Something…is just. Nothing feels right. I didn’t know this place was already a mess. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have come here. But if we hadn’t….I mean, we’re already here so we should help Jack. Whether he’s the me or you of this reality—“

“Elizabeth, he is the _Jack_ of this reality.”

“I know but—“

“So stop trying to _force_ a role on him. Whatever has happened to him is outside our knowledge, even yours. He’s not a puppet—and I understand the compulsion to think of them as not real,” he went on, stepping out of the room and closing the office door, “but we have to be prepared for unexpected changes. If you just throw away the outliers of your…vision or whatever, then you’re no better than that Tenenbaum.”

“Or you?” She shot back, putting her hands on her hips.

Booker tensed up in the shoulders, frowning into a thin line and breathed slowly through his nose. 

Elizabeth looked down when his eyes darkened, turning inward. “I’m sorry, I—“

“No, you’re right. Every version of me is a jerk in some way. I’m either stealing my own kid or I’m choosing to give her up—“

“But you didn’t, Booker—“

“Does intent still matter if the outcome is the same?”

“Yes!” Elizabeth snapped. “It does. To me. I mean. That’s why you’re the _real_ Booker. To me, anyway. You wanted to give me a better life. You hated yourself. And when you tried to get me back, they stole me away. But when you had the chance to come find me, you did. Nevermind that I wouldn’t know you, they told you that I was imprisoned there and you agreed immediately.”

Booker eyed her. “How do you know about that?”

“The Luteces told me.”

Booker rolled his eyes and sneered. “Of course they did.”

 

 

 

“Booker Dewitt.” Andrew Ryan said to his empty office, pacing in front of the projector. “Born in New York, World War two veteran, came to Rapture in 1949 as a private detective. Sullivan occasionally tapped him for help on a few things. Was briefly investigated but found no connection to Fontaine or Atlas.” Ryan tapped his desk. “But he came here alone. Not with a family.”

Ryan glanced up, eyeing the security tape of Elizabeth coming through the light in Arcadia. Could it be possible that Dewitt had lied? Ryan had never met the man but Sullivan had mentioned him a time or two but unlike the other vultures scrambling at a chance to get on Ryan’s payroll (as proven by every other joe Sullivan had ever mentioned in passing), Dewitt never showed up in his office. He never called, threw a party, attended a party or been hired by anyone he could note. The man seemed better suited to the working class and under crowd. But as he pulled up Dewitt’s file and opened it, he did find an extensive client list. Still, he’d never worked with Atlas or Fontaine (or Ryan, for that matter) and he was assumed dead or missing. How would he have escaped Rapture only to return with someone who could use the bathyspheres and a young woman with an extraordinary power. But Dewitt was playing dumb for this boy, Jack? 

Ryan shook his head. What was the connection? What wasn’t he seeing? He didn’t know enough about Dewitt. Ryan whirled around, going to the desk and sifting through it until he found the man’s investigator’s license, as issued by New York City. It had the address of his Rapture office, written in thick pencil, in the corner of the backside. It was an apartment area of Fort Frolic. Well, shit. Cohen would be entrenched there still, very likely.

But then again….his bathysphere could take him to the backside of Fort Frolic where there _was_ a smaller hub. He could go take a poke around. Ryan looked at his hands, his books, his golf club and then behind him, to the genetic distribution hub. The means by which Suchong let him control the splicers (via pheromones) took up most of the entire wall. Delusions of free will were dashed at this point. He walked over to his intercom system to give the order in Fort Frolic’s residential hub—anything in the office of the detective was to be brought to the bathysphere hub. Everything. 

And Ryan released the pheromones. Sure, one’s Adam had to be wearing away for the pheromones to fully take control and typically most users had to be hooked for a year or more—but plenty of the splicers around were like that most of the time anyway. Careless and selfish and now they were paying the price. To be used as tools by betters hands. By _his_ hands. There was no one left to pick up the great chain except for Andrew Ryan. 

 

 

“All right, so these are smuggling tunnels, that means enclosed spaces, maze-like paths and not a lot of ceiling room,” Booker said as they were forced to give up their guns to Peach. The old man was nutty as a mad house and clearly obsessed with Fontaine. Everyone jumping at his ghost. “I’ll go in first with my hands up, you two each spread out in case they come at me full-force or if there are any of those goddamned turrets around.”

Jack knelt to Caper and Masha. “It’s too dangerous for you guys to come in with us. So Caper, I want you to take Masha and go through the vents. You should probably go to Olympus Heights.”

“I don’t wanna go to Tenenbaum,” Caper said, eyes darkening, gazing at the floor.

“I don’t want either of you to get shot,” Jack said softly. “Go find Tenenbaum and just observe first. If she’s still hurting people, come to Arcadia—apparently that’s on the other side of these tunnels.”

“Make sure you go see Eleanor,” Masha told him, pushing on his nose.

“I will, I’ll find her. She’s your big sister, right?” 

“She saw you,” Caper told him, “in the Dark House.”

Jack studied Caper for a moment and then Booker said, “We gotta go, they’ll get suspicious if we linger. Caper, stay out of sight. Do you remember?”

“Against the walls, keep to the shadows when we’re not in the vents.” Caper gave him a jaunty little salute and went to Masha to take her hand. “Come on. I’ll be your big sister for now.”

It was absolutely the shitstorm Booker expected. He went in first as the bait, he let the kids fan out to flank them when Peach and his shitheads attacked. And they used fog or something. Which was perfect for Elizabeth to slip around and hack the couple of turrets he heard clicking around. When the shooting stopped, he pushed his hands into some snowy ice to get the feeling back and then the three of them were exploring the extensive smuggling tunnels until they surfaced in some sort of docking bay.

“There’s the sub. I need you to open the access door. Can you hear anything from it?” Atlas asked, voice beginning to unravel to closer he seemed to get to his family.

“It’s silent,” Booker answered, not unkindly, as he and Jack inspected the sub. 

“Ah, here’s the control booth!” Elizabeth called, waving her hand out. “It was hidden behind some rubble.”

The men returned to help her move the collapsed stone and wood and Jack pulled the lever without hesitation—despite a stern warning from Mister Ryan. When Atlas ran into the bay, Elizabeth took out her crossbow.

“What are you doing!” Jack demanded.

“Looking through the scope to see what this Atlas looks like. Dark hair, dressed like the rest—that one looks like a splicer though, his face is all messed up—“

And then the whole bay shook, there was a blast of screaming metal, then shrieking voices. Jack grabbed Elizabeth, pushing her against the wall and away from the windows. Booker swore and picked up Jack’s wrench to try and break the glass. They heard Atlas screaming into the radio, sobbing something, overcome with rage—

“Patrick! Moira! Moira! Goddammit, fucking _shit!”_

 _(Sir, sir, please stay in your seat. Sir, what are you doing? Sir—!)_ Jack gritted his teeth. _Not now._ His head seared behind his eyes.

“Get out! Get out! Go to Arcadia, Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Booker!” Elizabeth screamed, reaching for him when the splicers smashed the window, diving right into the detective. Two drug him up by their vicious hooks before ripping them out and throwing him back against the wall. A score or more shattered the rest of the glass. Suddenly, Jack had his arm around her waist and picked her up right off the ground. With his free hand, he picked up his wrench. 

The detective was a goddamn beast. He ripped the splicers to shreds when they got too close to his airhook thing. And when it got stuck in one’s face, he released and gave the next a hit right in the throat. Two dropped on him from the ceiling, digging their hooks into his collarbones and tearing _up—_

“Booker!” Jack swung. He brained two of the splicers and then threw Elizabeth out the magnetic door. She ducked into a roll and drew her pistol, coming up on her knee in one fluid motion. Her left hand lit up with Shock Jockey crystals and she _slammed_ to chunks of crystal into the surrounding rock foundation. They connected and webbed out like a fence, zapping any on the other side who approached it.

Jack waded into the mess of writhing hooks and bodies and so much blood. Jack slid on the stone as he threw a splicer into another, clearing a path to Booker. The older man was holding a splicer’s monstrous wrist that was straining to cut his throat as the two above struggled to rip his collarbones from his body. Jack two-handed the wrench and brought it down on the splicer’s bulging head. He staggered, Booker did too, so Jack stepped in to hit the monster again. Again and again and again, into the metal and earth and the splicer’s blood kept smattering onto his face and neck.

He heard more shots and the two splicers trying to wrestle Booker suddenly toppled over. Blood flooded out over the tile and stone, gurgling from their throats. When he finally remembered to check on Booker, the man was sitting beside the corpses, just watching Jack beat the splicer to death. He didn’t look pleased but he didn’t really seem offended either. Just sort of sad. 

Jack shuddered out a breath and looked down at the tile. 

“You all right?” Booker asked softly. His shotgun smoked in his grip, he let it fall aside like a stick. 

The control room felt very still and quiet. 

Jack looked at the man’s brutalized face. “I’m not sure.”

“That’s okay, Jack. But, you just saved my life, so for what it’s worth: I don’t think you’re a bad person. So, thanks.”

Jack stared at him for a moment and then swallowed hard and nodded. “Y-yeah?” He managed a faint laugh. 

“You’re all right, kid,” Booker said firmly, quietly. He clapped Jack on the shoulder gently, like his elder brother Alexander might have once, as the boy sat down on the bloody stone tile to rest.

Elizabeth re-entered the room. “Ryan bombed the sub, from the looks of it. Atlas ran.”

“Any bodies?” Booker asked from the floor.

She knelt to check on Jack first. “None. Or they’re underneath the sub in the water. Or they were burnt to ash.”

“Blood?”

“I assume—but everything was burnt black. You’ll have to check to be sure.”

Booker nodded and got himself standing. “I’ll go check it out. You stay here.” He nodded to Jack, who was looking a bit unsettled.

She waited until Booker walked stubbornly down the rampway (it was honestly easier to just let him do what he wanted sometimes) to approach Jack. He looked a little grey in the face and his eyes were bloodshot. Extremely bloodshot. “Jack, I think you’ve ruptured a blood vessel in your eye. Can you look at me?”

He nodded absently, his blue eyes ringed in bright red blood. He looked skull-like in the dim light. She nodded. “Yep, you did. In both eyes. Did you hit your head at all, Jack?”

“I don’t know,” Jack murmured. “I don’t….know what’s happening to me.”

“What do you mean, Jack?” 

“The horrible headaches, the dreams, Atlas—he wanted us to _save_ them and they died. This Andrew Ryan is a real fucking prick.”

“I think everyone here is,” Elizabeth said, trying a half-smile.

Jack didn’t. “Great, so then what, Elizabeth? Do we stay here and kill _everyone?_ Until _we_ decide when justice has been served?”

She blinked back. “I—well—no. I just…” 

Jack looked down at the blood, at all the bodies and drug his grimy hand over his face. “I don’t really like killing people.”

Elizabeth stared at him, inwardly trying to figure out what to do. Finally, she took a breath, “Jack, you don’t have to—“

“And what, leave it all to Booker? But I’m not as fast as you and I can’t pull objects from maybe other…realities or whatever. I don’t mind the fighting. That’s easy. But just….all the needless death.”

“I know, Jack,” Elizabeth said softly, commiserating for a moment. “Makes you feel helpless, you know?” She fidgeted with her thimble and then got on her knees to put a hand on his shoulder. “Like the plane crash that stranded us here.”

He nodded quietly, looking down to consider it.

“Do you know why the plane crashed?” Elizabeth asked him, somber and gentle. 

Jack furrowed his eyebrows. He remembered numbers and his present and then screaming and a panicked stewardess and a blood-soaked cabin but it was all a blur. “I don’t know. Maybe the pilots were drunk or something. I….I can’t remember. Not clearly, anyway. I just remember the screaming.”

Elizabeth watched him rub his eyes, shaking under even her feather-light touch on his shoulder. _So something happened on board that brought the plane down?_

 

 

 

Eleanor’s eyes opened. But only in the Other Place. On the outside, under her mother’s eyes, she was still in her chemical coma. Eleanor, though, still got up and walked about. But only in the Other Place. The same the Little Sisters saw. Their little world. And Eleanor’s little world. It expanded every time new DNA was added to her Adam base. And now she wandered Rapture as a wraith, drifting in and out of minds and bodies, unable to anchor herself to anyone. Until now.

She _felt_ the doors to Masha open, felt her turn human again, felt her cry and mourn and cling to Caper and Jack—

_Jack?_

She saw them through Masha’s eyes, glimpsing the outside world through those little windows. The careful kindness of the detective, Dewitt. His extraordinary daughter, Elizabeth. She was utterly fascinating, glowing like a lantern. And then Jack. 

Jack, who’d cried out her name when he slept, his mind strange and locked up and struggling to find a seam to unravel. Something was wrong with Jack. Something wearing through him like rough stone to sand. Slowly eating away at a block to reveal a carving beneath. 

Something almost…familiar.

Pins and needled crackled through Eleanor. 

A lanky boy, too tall, eyes were too big but he glowed like them and he grew so fast. His mind was rattled, confused, child-like. Adam made his eyes starry, just like the Little Sisters. Just like them. But he had no brothers. Not like she had sisters, anyway. But he was everywhere always at once because he got to go play in the Dark Room every day but they filled him up with Adam instead of making him give it up. He even let her play with his puppy one time—but then afterwards….

_”Break that sweet puppy’s neck.”_

On the outside, Sophia Lamb stared down at her daughter as she thrashed. She stuffed a rag between Eleanor’s teeth.

“Just another seizure, dear. You’ll be fine,” she murmured, eyes blue and cold.

Eleanor’s restraints creaked.


	7. Johnny Topside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I like music when I write. 
> 
> Well of Knowledge: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iBpH_xQxF_g&index=13&list=PLQuOKHNudkmd8XwtZosj0WXzYWpuHjTxz
> 
> Also, a few more details get switched up from the base canon. Also Elizabeth and Jack practice their people skills.  
> \-----------------------------------------------------------
> 
> “Date of record: June second, 1950. Now, state your name, pal,” Sullivan said, sitting down across the table from a tanned, black-haired, grey-eyed young man. 
> 
> The young man watched Sullivan hit record on his audio player. His partner, Miele, stayed standing. Someone else was watching from behind the mirror, very likely. “Jon Einarson.”  
> \------------------------------------------------------------

No one spoke much. Atlas did so much as tell them about the Farmer’s Market and then he went quiet. Likely coping with his dead family. Not that Booker had found any bodies—he’d even gone underneath to check, until Elizabeth appeared and scolded him for getting into the water with his wounds still open and bloody—but they’d agreed not to mention it just yet. Jack seemed a little edgy and Elizabeth insisted that if Atlas’ family _did_ die, then they shouldn’t be harassing him just yet. 

Jack, on the other hand, seemed…melancholy. At first, he idled after Booker, offering to help him a bit too much and Booker finally sending him to Elizabeth. So she took him walking through the manufactured greenery and trees—real trees. 

“Makes me miss the sunshine,” she said quietly, pacing a small, hilly area of Arcadia. 

Jack looked into all the shadowy corners. His eyes were misting—not tearing up—but glowing with mist. He saw shades and shadows, murmuring in the dark, a soft moan—

_(Peter, oh—)_

_”Did you see Ryan agreed to debate that horrible Lamb woman? God knows why he’s giving her the time of day. You spout facts at her and she muses at the potential scenarios where she is right and everyone else is wrong.”_

_”Can you ever leave work at work?” The man buzzed around her, sliding a palm over her hip._

_(—in me, ah—)_

The images bled together, pain shot up into his eyes. He felt Elizabeth touch his arm, breathed in her warm, soft scent—like sunshine—

_When did I see sunshine?_

There were flashes, emerging from the dark into blinding light. _It hurts! It hurts!_ And then a breeze. He saw real clouds—

_Eleanor should be here._

"Who’s not here?” Elizabeth’s voice cut through the haze like scissors to sheets. 

_(Mother died on which she fucked.)_

Jack shook himself. “What?” 

Elizabeth was staring at him, looking alarmed. No—staring _down_ at him. He jumped, tensing up all over, realizing he was on the ground. He scrambled to get up. “Shit—I—fuck—sorry. The plasmids here—they make you see ghosts. I guess. Eleanor isn’t here.”

The young woman studied him. “Do you know where Eleanor is?” 

“Well, no, but—I’ve…I mean I’ve seen it. I think. Or something. From genetic sampling or whatever.”

 _Genetic codes that he already possessed. Allowing him access to a lonely Lighthouse in the middle of the sea._ Dammit, she had meant just to explore Rapture. Just look around and then leave. But the crash. Something about the whole thing was.....odd. That was what didn't fit. She'd been so focused on the details of the intense vision of the Other Elizabeth that she hadn't thought to ask _why_ the plane was even crashing. Elizabeth felt a cold chill grip her insides. “Jack, where was the plane going? Why were you on it?”

He did a double-take at her and for a long moment, looked lost. “I was going to England to see my—wait. No, that’s….I…I don’t remember,” he breathed faintly. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to center himself. Elizabeth stepped into him. 

“Jack, come back to me. Jack?”

He felt her cool touch on his jaw, another pressed against his shirt. He felt like he was boiling over, but she was cool and calm. He wrapped an arm around her and then shuddered like a leaf, collapsing back to the grass like a sinking ship. Elizabeth stayed with him. She sat on her knees and just stroked his hair. His ears were bleeding onto her jacket. And then her cool palms seared against his forehead and his cheek. And then she cupped his throat.

That seemed to help, it brought him back down to himself. He swallowed hard, opening his eyes. “Elizabeth?” 

“Yeah. Are you okay?”

 _I’m Jack_. He touched his sternum. “Elizabeth, I think I’m going crazy.”

It hung there between them for a moment before Elizabeth pushed his chin up to meet his eyes. “Jack, it’s all right. We’re going to help you.” She locked her gaze on him until he nodded.

He still looked uncertain, sitting on the grass like a little boy. So Elizabeth sat on her knees and embraced him around his head and shoulders. Jack tensed up, eyes going wide and hallow. He felt her fingers sift through his sandy hair, soothing and warm and safe. 

_(The sky was so blue.)_

She was singing softly—a beautiful, lilting note to her voice that tugged a little on every word. It was easier then, as he urged her to sit beside him so he could watch her face. At first, she seemed self-conscious of his gaze and then looked up and away to continue _(Will the circle, be unbroken)_ like an actress forcing herself into character. 

Eventually, he started to hum with her, a couple octaves lower. That helped him control his breathing and his head began to clear like a dissipating storm. And yet, somehow, he couldn’t seem to stop himself, sewing his fingertips delicately to her throat, thumb skimming her artery. She continued singing, carefully watching him now. His grasp tightened.

A ghostly woman stumbled into a man’s arms, slotting a thigh between his. _”I’m spliced up in ways you can’t imagine.”_

“J-Jack…” Elizabeth managed, a hit of warning in her tone.

He could _see_ her fear, her unease, the resistance to get attached, the fear of him—of him—instinctive but tinged with uncertainty. She felt something different. Something _curious._ Could he somehow have gotten a genetic sample from her in the Eve somewhere? He hadn’t taken any Adam from her and she seemed a little wary of the plasmids. She only used a few, herself. But sometimes looking at her was like seeing the ghosts. She even felt cool, like the ghosts did. If only he could somehow take that coolness into himself. Anything to put out the inferno searing behind his eyes ever since he’d had the stupid idea to come down to this stupid place. Maybe it was the difference in air pressure?

This _was_ his fault, after all. He’d insisted on coming down even though Booker had seemed reluctant to carry on and now they were in some kind of deal with Atlas. Not to mention, the relentless nightmares, Jesus H Roosevelt Christ. And the weird flashbacks and blips in his memory…

He ran the fingers of his free hand into her hair, essentially capturing her at her throat and jaw. She didn’t seem truly afraid—for she didn’t struggle but she was watching him closely. Her neck arched a little to allow her a swallow of air. She should be shoving him away, calling for Booker, grabbing her pistol.

And yet, she didn’t. She felt his grip tighten again, by just a hair. It made her very aware of Jack’s unexpected strength, the strange noises of Arcadia’s plant and animal life—how they were sitting side-by-side and she’d never actually...had small talk, really. She’d never had any friends. Yet, here she was, allowing this near-stranger to grasp her throat tighter. Make her feel real, more aware, more grounded—it was a heady feeling. Was that strange? Was she _that_ out of touch with actual humans? 

Perhaps Jack thought so. His eyes were—oh, they weren’t blue at all. They were green. In the dim lighting of Rapture, she hadn’t noticed. She watched something misfire in Jack’s eyes and she used his moment of disorientation to try and open his Door. 

There was something blocking her. Elizabeth examined it—his mind was locked up tight. It needed keys. But why? And who would have done it to a farmhand? And why was it getting worse? 

_(No, no—not to Papa Suchong, don’t send them there. He always hurts them. He always hurts them!)_

He squeezed tighter, yanking her closer to him. He felt like he was coming apart at the seams, like she was looking in and prying him open. Her eyes were such a crystal blue—like aquamarines. And she smelled like sunshine and her breast was suddenly pressing against his arm. He could feel the hardness of her nipple through her shirt, the coolness of her skin, the warmth of her breath. His thumb pressed into her esophagus and she curved her neck in a smooth pale line. He couldn’t seem to help it, leaning in immediately, tracing his nose up her jaw—

Something exploded, shaking the two of them apart. Elizabeth instantly was up, looking a bit frazzled. 

“That sounded like it came from that way,” Jack managed, pointing back towards the Market, where Booker was setting up a camp. He suddenly wished Booker could just handle things for a little while—

Elizabeth was off like a shot. She raced up the hill and into the next passage way, down the hall and up the stairs—

Booker grabbed her, hidden behind a doorway like a Booker-in-the-Box. He snagged her right around the waist and clamped his hand over her mouth. “It’s me,” he whispered, urgently. “There’s a Big Daddy around the corner. He hasn’t seen me yet—he saw someone else. But there’s a Little Sister with him.”

Booker released her and they both whirled around as Jack bounded through the doorway. It took both of them to stop his momentum. Jack stumbled to a stop and then went still as stone, looking to Booker first. The kid’s eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. He really was kind of coming apart down here. Booker examined him. “Jack, you all right?”

“Big Daddy?” Jack asked instead, nodding. He picked up the chemical thrower and a cartridge of that stun gel that the kid had somehow cooked up. 

Elizabeth unhooked her crossbow from her belt and loaded up her incendiary bolts. Booker looked automatically for Caper, until he remembered she was gone. Booker shook himself and swung his rifle off his shoulder. “Ready?”

He waited for the younger two to nod before Booker swung around the corner and threw a grenade. 

 

 

 

“Date of record: June second, 1950. Now, state your name, pal,” Sullivan said, sitting down across the table from a tanned, black-haired, grey-eyed young man.

The young man watched Sullivan hit Record on his audio player. His partner, Miele, stayed standing. Someone else was watching from behind the mirror, very likely. “Jon Einarson.” He had been stripped of all his gear and put into scrubs of some kind. His feet were cold on the bare, concrete floor. “I was born in Canada—and I have a license to dive out here. I’m twenty years old. Diving is what I do.”

“What took you over this far? Rapture ain’t no coral reef, no secret military operation, no research station. Why were you here?”

“Research—“

“Were you a journalist?”

“No! I was looking into some boat disappearances for a private client. That’s all.”

“Who’s your father? He’s old enough to have done a tour.”

“He left Iceland to volunteer for the Canadian military during the First World War. He met my mother and stayed. He volunteered when the second war came around and died over in a goddamn death camp.”

Sullivan glanced at his partner, Adrien Miele, leaning back by the wall. He was of French heritage and he had the air of an irregular about him, maybe even French resistance during the War. They both glanced at the mirror. A third man came through the door a moment later.

His stance was relaxed and easy. He had a cigarette in the corner of his mouth which he politely took out and snuffed in his fist, tucking the remains in his shirt for safe-keeping. He had some healthy scruff on his face and a hardened, cautious look to him. His eyes were a somber, deep green. His button-up shirt was tucked in but his sleeves were pushed up around his elbows. The third man studied Jon intently.

“You think he’s tellin the truth?” Sullivan mused.

The third man shrugged. “You think Ryan will give a shit?”

Sullivan frowned and glanced at Adrien.

Miele shrugged too. “Probably not, Detective—but for the record, I believe him.”

The third man nodded and walked over to him. “I believe him too.” The detective stuck out his hand to him. “Name’s Dewitt. This is Sullivan and Miele. I’m gonna be straight with you, kid. It’s an achievement that you found this place. That’s amazing. But what you wanna do—is get the fuck out of here before Andrew Ryan gets a hold of you.”

“Who’s Ryan?” 

“Andrew Ryan built Rapture from the ground up, kid,” Sullivan answered. “And he will want copies of alla this right here. While Rapture ain’t technically got a leader, Andrew Ryan built the place and he can make anyone disappear if they live in his fishtank.”

“Why?” Jon demanded. “That’s bullshit. How can he do that? I’m not a fucking citizen of this place!”

“Rapture is its own City-State. The only ones who know it’s here are some government types in DC, in Ottawa and in whatever the hell the capital of Iceland is—“ Sullivan gestured to Jon.

The young man snorted. “Reykjavik.”

“Them,” Sullivan agreed, pointing at Jon. 

“So if anyone comes looking for you, there’s a big chance that they’ll either end up in the same cell as you or they’ll get eaten by sharks,” Dewitt told him. “I’d just advise bein careful, ace. I can understand bein curious but I would look at getting out of here sooner rather than later.”

“I’ll talk to Ryan about getting him clearance to return. I dunno why he wouldn’t allow it.” Sullivan took out a cigarette and lit it with a match.

“Unless, he believes the boy is a spy,” said Miele, eyeing Jon.

“Also, it would be really hard to not tell anyone about this.” Dewitt chuckled when he said it. 

Jon crossed his arms, letting his heel rest on his opposite knee. “Yeah! I mean. What do I say when they ask why I was gone for so long? I mean—I found a city and I was drug into an airlock and forced inside, stripped and then interrogated. They’ll think I’m crazy.”

“Until you give ‘em the coordinates,” Sullivan answered. 

“So it’s not looking good either way,” Jon sighed. “Fuck.”

“You could ask Ryan to stay here,” Miele suggested. “You will sign a contract but it will give you time if Mister Ryan will not allow you to leave.” 

“Show Ryan he’s got an interest in doing good for Rapture?” Dewitt said, a note of uncertainty in his tone. The detective rubbed his jaw and glanced at Jon. 

“Get that journalist, Stan Poole to do a piece about him, an adventure-seeker’s discovery of Rapture,” Miele said, waving a hand airily. “Mister Ryan likes things that fit into his view of the world.”

“Also money,” Dewitt threw in. “Everyone down here will want news about above. Even Ryan.”

“And every betty in town will wanna get her teeth wet,” Sullivan added and winked. “You’re gonna have a busy few days.”

Jon snorted. “Hopefully a few weeks, in that case.”

“The point is, if Ryan benefits from it in some way—he might be more amiable to just let you go home instead of having you imprisoned or something.” Dewitt offered him a cigarette.

Jon politely declined. “So tell him how amazing Rapture is and what a glowing review I will give of it when I go home.”

“Exactly,” Miele agreed and finally walked forward to sit in one of the other chairs. 

Dewitt brought a pot of coffee over and poured everyone a mug. “But you gotta be careful, kid. Rapture’s not exactly a cake walk and it’s full of stubborn dipshits who are used to getting what they want.”

Jon laughed. “Sounds like they got some cabin fever.”

“Maybe you can help them out, eh,” Sullivan suggested, brightening.

Dewitt frowned, so did Miele. The Frenchman said, “Try not to get too infatuated with Rapture. She is a terrible mistress. And very unforgiving.”

A week later, the kid disappeared from the Adonis. 

Dewitt found out from Amir, one of the kids in his little network around Rapture. Amir was about nine when Dewitt initially came across him. The kid had walked in, said he needed help trying to find a friend of his that had disappeared.

You saw that a lot these days. And you saw a lot more if you went poking around after the whereabouts of a missing sister or daughter. But still, the kid was distraught and moreover, he was _angry_. Dewitt could understand that sense of terrible helplessness. The kid put down a fistful of bills and coins. Dewitt put out his cigarette. “What’s her name?”

“Eleanor—”

 

 

 

Lamb opened up the cold case. Carefully preserved, a dashing and handsome young man. Jonny Topside, a brave diver who discovered Rapture entirely by accident. Doctor Lamb had found the transcripts of his interview and interrogations. He had a Canadian mother and an Icelandic father. It must have been pretty scary for him, beset on every side and forced into an airlock. He’d been carted off for questioning to ensure he wasn’t some CIA spook and he passed. But eventually, like many loose ends, they ended up in Persephone. 

His great crime was wanting to return home, to the surface. Also, Ryan didn’t believe he wasn’t a spy.

“Poor, foolish man,” Sofia murmured, touching his jaw. She turned on her heel. “Sinclair, put him in a suit. Fontaine’s little science experiment has arrived in Rapture. That would explain the fluctuations in Eleanor’s brain waves. Get them on the security cameras as soon as they enter an area within range. They’re still in Upper Rapture for now.”

“Science experiment?” Sinclair drawled politely, raising his eyebrows and pointing his cigarette the same direction with his mouth. 

“The WYK project.” She turned away, pacing the silent halls where Eleanor was kept. Lamb took off her glasses. “I found it in a stack of old files in Suchong’s clinic. I don’t know the exact details but, their experiment was sent to the surface. Now it returns. He, Fountaine, and Tenenbaum conspired against all others. They were the ones who afflicted Eleanor.” She sifted through the file, spreading notes out in front of her. 

They were the ones who tortured Subject Delta. They were the ones who tested their plasmids on criminals and political prisoners. They were the _ones_ who _made_ the Little Sister program. It was already well underway by the time she even heard about Eleanor. It was already in place when she decided _not_ to kill Delta, but take him with her and put him under the Family’s control. There was no better bodyguard than a Big Daddy. And they needed the Adam. _She_ needed the Adam. Eleanor must absorb samples from as many donors as possible. Her daughter would be the eclipse that changed the world.

But beside the small, thin file of limited information on the WYK project, and the brick of information she had on Subject Delta, there was one enlarged, glossy photograph.

It had likely traveled to every pit and corner of Rapture by now: a young woman arriving in Arcadia. Sinclair had found it on one of his many excursions into Rapture via passageways from Sinclair Spirits. The dark hair, the strange power…could she be a _Utopian?_ Her power was fascinating, whatever it was. Those sane enough to realizing what they were seeing and get to a radio to sing out to anyone who was listening—which was about a dozen people in every sector of Rapture—had kept a sort of running commentary when they could. Moving objects from other realities. That could not possibly be a plasmid—but that fool Atlas wouldn’t know a liar if one bit him. A lacky scrap from the dog that was Fontaine. The criminal equal to Ryan. And when Fontaine was dead, Atlas moved in like a power-hungry lordling, struggling to be even the equivalent of Ryan. Atlas was hardly better than the mob—and typically harder to convert unless she had a good chunk of time to have sessions with them. Feed them what they want to hear, as close to our truth as possible, and make them yours.

_Make them mine._

“Some kind of weapon of Fontaine’s?” Sinclair prompted.

The man was like a seagull. Lamb scoffed. “Apparently. But I want Delta to bring me the girl, if possible. She could be what Eleanor needs. The last piece.”

Sinclair watched Lamb brace her murderous-librarian arms on her desk, staring at the picture of the girl. “Then I suppose I’ll get the old boy ready.” Sinclair put on his cap. “Although, doctor, I gotta say—seems more prudent to keep Topside here, in case someone tries to come for Eleanor.”

“Why, Mister Sinclair. I can’t imagine such a thing. Unless you know personally of an attempt that might be made.” She eyed him coldly.

Sinclair sighed, sounding rather bored. “I should say I don’t, Doctor. But it never hurts to be prepared.”

“Which is why we will hunt first. Get him in the suit and send him out. Have him repair as many cameras as possible so we can try to pick up this human weapon. The pheromone charges for his helm are in the storage cooler, Sinclair.”

“Too bad you can’t let him adhere to his own common good.” Sinclair drawled, lighting a cigarette.

“He is a _thing,”_ Lamb snapped. “Just like all the others. A tool to be used by better hands. He is a martyr. You are simply his handler, Sinclair.”

“Per our agreement, Doc,” Sinclair agreed with that teasing little smile.

She scowled at him.

 

 

 

Jack knelt down to the Little Sister, catching her about the shoulders. She struggled and fought, crying pitifully for her Daddy. They seemed to make Elizabeth a little uncomfortable. Booker leaned against the wall, surveying the rest of the room while Jack lit up like a bonfire inside and out and then faded. The little girl’s eyes came back amber-brown, and fear with it.

She was a tiny little black girl. Even in Rapture, the people couldn’t completely shun their prejudices. It was easier to take black girls, asian girls, latino girls, immigrant girls, poor girls—because their parents could not fight the stratified society that they’d come to. And those who could fight it, didn’t care.

Her name was Lorna, which was all they managed to get from her before she choked up. Her cries were silent and muffled, _(Quiet now, that’s a good child. We not gonna let ‘em take ya, sweet child. Ain’t no one gonna take ya while mama’s here.)_ and so Jack just held her and stroked her curly hair. They broke into a small hotel in lower Arcadia and Elizabeth gently took the girl to get her cleaned up while he and Booker set up a perimeter.

Jack paced restlessly before he finally said, “Hey, uh, Booker.”

“What is it?” The detective was gathering wood to build a fire because warm pie filling was actually pretty goddamn good and they'd found four cans of it. 

“Do you think I’m crazy?”

Booker paused with an armful of twigs. He stared at him for a long moment, studying the young man. “Yes,” he answered. “Or nearly. It’s going to depend a lot on you.”

Jack shuddered, going a shade of grey before he swallowed hard. “Okay. So. It’s not just me. Booker—sometimes I—feel like I’m…on autopilot. I mean. I know what I’m doing but…sometimes it feels like….”

“Like there’s someone puppeteering your actions?” Booker glanced around them, looking uneasy.

Jack sighed helplessly. “Maybe…I dunno. I just…feel like I’m losing my grip on things. And maybe it’s just the plasmids but…sometimes I get the feeling that I’ve been here before.”

“Here specifically?” Booker asked, gesturing around at Arcadia. 

“No, just Rapture in general,” Jack said, looking up and around the hotbox of man-made streams and ponds and hybrid flowers and rose gardens, choked with a sweet, floral stench. “I’ll be in a hallway and I’ll get this creepy feeling that I’ve been in that hallway, heading in that direction but at some other point. I know it’s stupid but I can’t shake it.”

“Look, you’ve been through a lot, kid. Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Booker managed gruffly, looking down at his gun to reload it. 

“And when I was with Elizabeth just now—I was seeing ghosts and hearing things and she tried to help me but all I could feel was….was her skin and how she smells like sunshine and clean linen. And I…..” he glanced up.

Booker’s eyebrows were raised but otherwise, he just watched him, waiting for Jack to go on. _Insisting_ he go on, still and silent. Or else. “Did she slap you or something?”

“No! No! I just…it was weird. And I’m not sure if it’s because of the ghosts or because of….”

Booker heaved an annoyed sigh. “Elizabeth is beautiful and intelligent. To some folk, this seems to make them think she is mysterious. The rest seem to assume she’s stupid because she’s pretty.”

Jack’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I….definitely don’t think she’s stupid. Um. That’s not…what I was....uh.”

“Good. Because she isn’t. And if she didn’t want to be around you, she’d have either left you there, thrown you into a tear, or called for me. And then I would have slit your throat.” Booker glared at him. “Everyone underestimates her. Sometimes it makes her feel like she’s got something to prove. But other times, she’s real compassionate. That gets her into trouble too.” And Booker’s hard green eyes fixed on him. Jack felt the intangible weight of it. “So long as you are respectful, there’s no reason for me to get involved unless she asks me to.” 

_But if I have to, you will definitely regret it,_ Jack heard, loud and clear.

The young man shifted uncomfortably. “That wasn’t what I was even…I mean….Jesus Christ. Right. Okay. Yeah. Got it.”

Suddenly, Arcadia went dark around them. All the lights flickered and a few buzzing red emergency lamps came on. Then something misted out of the vents.

Jack’s radio buzzed and Atlas’ tired, grim voice filtered through. “So, I think Ryan just poisoned Arcadia.”


	8. Lead the Lamb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The timeline here does not exactly follow the game ones (because they all have slight differences, especially when Burial at Sea gets tossed in) because I always thought the ten-year jump to 1968 for Delta was weird and a bit silly. The plot of Bioshock 2 doesn't actually make a whole lot of sense--but I still liked Eleanor (she should have been the lead of BIoshock 2, imo) and her potential, given her unique abilities--even from Elizabeth. 
> 
> Music was; Hammock: Holding Your Absence: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R-2B7OFgWis&list=PLQuOKHNudkmd8XwtZosj0WXzYWpuHjTxz&index=15  
> \------------------------
> 
> Langford scowled. “Big Sisters were primarily the work of that Doctor Lamb and her little golem, Doctor Gil Alexander.”
> 
> "Wait! Doctor who?" Elizabeth cut in sharply.
> 
> “No, Doctor _Lamb,”_ Langford said and rolled her eyes.  
>  \-----------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, will be moving to Colorado this week. So everything is crazy and sporadic.

Rapture’s Booker Dewitt had taken the office for its discounted rent. It contained one of those creepy Little Sister vents and so the john-in-charge knocked the rent off by a quarter. That seemed fine by him, even though the first time he’d woken to see a Little Sister standing over him…

That had scared the honest to god living shit out of him. 

Almost as much as the fucked up jungle-fest that was Southeast Asia during the war. A lot of terrible nights, fever, blood. The brutality of the Japanese soldiers spread like wildfire. The first time Dewitt came across one of theirs, cock sawed off and stuffed into his throat and his eyes sewn shut and hobbled with wooden stakes—he was certain this was a one-off. Someone snapping and brutalizing a prisoner—unfortunate—but it did happen. German and Italian POW military prisons were basically work prisons, right? How different could the Japs be? They agreed to work with Hitler—so they must have some sort of solidarity in regards to tactics—

Ah, not the case. 

Sometimes, he woke up in a cold sweat, hearing the pitiful whimpers, the stench of blood and shit, the sterile experimentation rooms and heaps and heaps of corpses. The Japanese Unit 731 camp had left a faded echo, like a photograph. Sometimes he saw eyes staring back. 

Sometimes they were Anya’s, brilliant blue in the grey slabs of despair. She would have laughed. Her sense of humor was so Russian. _Cold skin, warm heart._

But eventually seeing the glowing eyes of a Little Sister didn’t give him that locking cold feeling. At least, not so much. But as he watched them, drinking blood and clothing filthy and their skin that awful grey pallor…how could Rapture have come to this? If this is what was needed to save Rapture—was it really worth saving?

But then the children appeared in his office again—but they weren’t…whatever the Little Sisters were. They seemed more normal—though from the way they spoke, most had been experimented on or tortured. Or both. There were a mix of boys and girls. The girls had presumably escaped from the Little Sisters orphanage. The boys, however, had come from a variety of places. All of them were quiet. No one shouted or laughed or sang. Most looked tired and hurt and small. 

The first time Dewitt had found three children in his hallway via the vents, he’d stared at them. They stared at him. When the detective didn’t shout, one of the boys stood. “They’re chasin us.”

Dewitt glanced around his empty front office of his apartment. “Who is?”

“They’re in the vents. They can’t smell us if we aren’t in the vents.”

Dewitt looked at the single, dark eye in the wall. “Then you can wait here,” he told them. Two boys and a little girl and they looked like they’d slogged through a goddamn warzone. “What happened to you three?”

Three pairs of guarded eyes peered back at him. 

“I was in the orphanage for Sisters,” the girl murmured.

The other boy took a shaky breath. “We were…Cohen’s.”

Dewitt considered the three of them carefully. “Students?”

The second boy shook his head. “No.”

Dewitt stared at him, going stock still. _Oh shit._ “Cohen is selling children?”

The boys both looked down and away, shoulders curling in. 

“For art,” the little girl said, lip curling into a snarl. “They got _bleeded_ and _beated_ and _heated_ and then stab!” She flourished her hands and shuddered violently. “It’s art!” She declared, imitating Cohen—even as her tiny body convulsed. She threw up onto her filthy dress.

One of the boys choked back a soft sound and all three turned away to face their misery and sorrow alone. 

Dewitt didn’t take them in exactly, but vents in private residences could not be placed under surveillance from the police or Ryan industries. So he started leaving the vent cover open just a little and marked it on the inside with a green sticker (shaped like a cartoon submarine). He gave them food and let them come in and hide as needed. And eventually, a few of them came back, leading others to various safe points to get other children to wherever they were going. It took a little time to earn their trust, but eventually some of them visited. Some of them spoke to him. Some of them left him little trinkets or packaged sweet cakes next to the vent. 

Some of them told him what had happened to them. All kinds of bigshot Rapture names came from them: Fountaine, Tenenbaum, Suchong, Alexander, Lamb, Ryan and countless others. Dewitt began to build his case against them all. He took notes and recordings and interviews of various children. And in return, he gave them what food he could and a safe place to sleep or hide from authorities. After all, dead children were a dime a dozen in Rapture—but if someone _did_ see them, then of course they’d try to catch them. The girls were worth their weight in gold and the boys would be sold either back to Cohen or to Suchong or Tenenbaum or Lamb or whatever. All a bunch of goddamn psychopaths. 

And it filled Rapture's Detective Dewitt with a sort of simmering rage. That it was _all_ of them. They were all fucking _monsters_. The little goddamn zombie girls were the sanest ones in this city and their guardians were the only loyal living thing in this joint. As soon as the weakest among them, the children, were targeted and sold like fucking merchandise—

_Like Sally. Jesus Christ, poor Sally._

One of the many children that passed in and out of hiding via his front office hallway…she had trailed after him even when the others had gone. She stayed and just watched him make his coffee and pack his pipe and open up his notes.

And when he glanced up, she was still there. Just silently watching him. 

Dewitt sat up, studying her in return. She was clean now—one of the older girls had seen to that. Her eyes were big and glassy blue. She had bright blond hair, cropped like a pixie to keep it from her eyes. “Sally?” he said, gently.

Her eyes seemed to focus in a little. “Is it time to go, Mister D?”

“No, you don’t have to go,” Dewitt told her. “Not unless you want to.”

“I…I have to….” Sally shook her head hard, like she was trying to stretch out her skull. Her fingers curled around an invisible grip—like one of those needle devices.

“You don’t have to draw Adam anymore, Sally. But you do need to stay out of sight. So, you can, uh, rest and such but don’t open the door to anyone and you can hide via the vent whenever you want. Stay close to the walls, keep to shadows.”

“Okay,” she answered, voice faint and soft. She didn’t move from her perch in the client chair. She rocked back and forth. She listened to him read and rustle papers. Sally smelled the fragrant scent of loose tobacco, packed into a pipe. And she stayed with him for the entire day. Sally hardly spoke that first visit. The girl had vanished in the morning but she returned once a week or so and their routine didn’t much deviate. She just seemed to like observing him at whatever work he was doing. 

Or when he was sleeping. So creepy. He knew they couldn’t help it or whatever but seriously, so creepy. He’d woken up three times to her sitting in the chair by the bedroom door, staring at him with her doll-like yellow eyes. She typically didn't get closer (except for the two times he’d woken to her standing right next to his bed, holy shit he may never sleep again) and then she’d eventually slip out like a shadow. And then there was a stretch of time that he didn’t see her at all and neither had Amir or Tyla or Jamie. 

Poor Sally. When Sullivan had told him about finding her in the—

 _Wait._

Oh God. So maybe she wasn’t dead after all?

Would Sullivan lie to keep Dewitt from investigating a crime? Dewitt scowled. Of course Sullivan would fucking lie to him. He was Ryan’s man. He did what he was told. Sullivan didn’t want him involved because he didn’t want Dewitt to find out about them selling people because—

 _Oh._

Because shit was about to hit the fan.

The realization sunk in, cold. At this point, no amount of evidence would ever convince the people of Rapture. It was going to be war. Too many big personalities, not enough phallic imagery to go around. If he had any fucking sense, he’d head for the surface before all the bathyspheres were put on lockdown. 

But could he really do that? Dismiss them all as just another lost Jon Topside?

“Mister Dewitt?”

It was Amir, the little Pakistani kid who’d misplaced his best friend, Eleanor. He was standing in the hallway.

“You’re gonna be too big for that vent soon, slick,” Dewitt said, gesturing for the kid to follow. 

Amir was about twelve then. Years had gone by with Dewitt allowing the children a way point. Word had spread. But that day brought Amir to him for a different reason. He sat down at Booker’s little table in the back room that served as a dining space. That was when Dewitt turned around with two mugs and he full-stopped. 

Amir was usually very alert, hard-eyed and frowning. He lived with his parents but he snuck out often, initially to get some information to Dewitt that turned into a little side spying project. Amir had an amazing memory and he and Dewitt began to trade information back and forth. But today he…he looked like he had seen a ghost. At least—without splicing, anyway. Dewitt sat down slowly, pushing the mug to the boy. “Amir? You all right, kid?” 

Amir swallowed hard, staring at the floor. He nodded. “Uh—yeah. Uh. Uh—Tyrel found a boy who was sold to Suchong. I’m working with some of the older boys to try and get him out. He’s always in a cage—along with a few others, usually, Tyrel told me.” 

Dewitt nodded, filing back that information, still watching Amir. The kid’s voice was a little choked and muffled, like maybe he'd recently been crying. Or trying not to. “Amir.”

He waited for the kid to look up, meeting his eyes. “What’s wrong?” The detective trapped his gaze.

The boy faltered, his eyes welled up—Amir tried to fight it. He desperately scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeve until Dewitt reached across the desk and gently, but firmly, took his wrist. “Amir.”

The boy dropped his hands, looking anywhere but across the table at Detective Dewitt. “My, uh….” The boy wiped his eyes again. “My mom and dad, uh…they’re….gone.”

Dewitt blinked. The kid’s parents were involved in providing gasoline and oil for Rapture (he had a small file on each of them from an unrelated project). The boy took a shuddery breath and said, “They’re gone. Dead. They’re dead.” He breathed again, a massive, gasping breath. “They were spliced. He was trying to get off Adam. My mom spliced up without his permission. So he killed her. He beat her to death in the kitchen. And then he smelled the Adam in her. And he….he started…he tore her skin off and her blood was in his mouth and he was _eating_ her…my father, he said I had to watch. So that I would know how to treat my wife one day.” He choked a little. “Because she didn’t ask permission to splice up. So he beat her to death and then….” 

“Where is your father now, Amir?” Dewitt asked gently.

“Dead,” Amir said, voice soft and numb, looking down to stare at his red and bleeding palms. 

Dewitt stared at the boy. _Oh shit. He killed his dad._

 

 

 

“You breathing clear, chief?” Sinclair watched Delta’s dead grey eyes move listlessly over the exam room. 

“Yes,” he answered, voice quiet and flat.

Sinclair inserted four tubes of red fluid into four small slots on the inside of his helm, pheromone charges that Sinclair could release sprays of with a push of a button. Or, perhaps, not release. Sinclair studied the metal suit. Delta was strapped into it and cuffed at the ankles and wrists and throat. They’d made him into a brutal killer. Poor kid.

Of course, if things went Lamb’s way, Sinclair would likely never see the daylight again. Or Fontaine’s, Ryan’s or Atlas’ ways, really. They all ended with a watery grave. And the one thing Sinclair took from Ryan was remembering to look out for number one.

Unfortunately, Lamb had enough idiots on her cult-roll that if he just killed her, he’d be dead before he got to the security doors of Persephone. So, Delta was his one chance to venture a message to the outside. (And, if he played his cards correctly, he’d get Lamb to let _him_ outside too.)

And it sounded like Tenebaum’s little side project—whatever it was—and this beautiful, dark-haired little minx were traveling together. Though they’d initially arrived separately. Some said there was another man with them but no one had confirmed for certain. 

“Well, sport, looks like there are two for certain, but possibly three. The good Doctor Lamb would prefer you to bring the girl back here to Persephone. She says the boy who used the bathysphere is quite interesting and if he surrenders the woman, she doesn’t care what happens to him. Though I would find it very likely that you’d be followed back here. And I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that Doctor Lamb might appreciate that more than she realizes.” Sinclair watched Delta get up from the exam table and pick up his gun. “Now, if there’s a third one—I suppose do what you must if he tries to stop you. Last anyone heard they were in Arcadia, guns a-whistlin to Fort Frolic. I’d have a care though—they’ve already taken down four or five of your Daddy kin.”

Sinclair took out an Eve hypo and injected it into the port in Delta’s arm. He also gave him a vial of Adam (technically not authorized—for if Delta chose, on his own, to splice—it could degrade the mental conditioning that bound him to Lamb and goodness gravy, sport—wouldn’t that be a _shame?)._

“Just in case,” Sinclair said aloud and winked. “Take another Eve hypo for the road, chief, and I’ll follow you up yonder to the security gate.”

Delta did not audibly respond. He generally didn’t unless they asked him a question. After taking Eleanor from him, everything was a blur. He’d woken up again in a laboratory. The Big Daddy suit had been somehow…removed. There had been horrific scarring on his legs and arms and neck and back and they’d spliced him into a powerfully built, compact fighter. But he still couldn’t see Eleanor. Still couldn’t feel her properly. She was about twelve then, old for a Little Sister but perhaps because she was the first, it would never go away if not interrupted and she was notoriously hard to catch. Because he was a notoriously deadly Big Daddy. 

Sinclair was still speaking. “If you can catch their signals as you go up, you’ll likely hear Atlas chattering away, as he does. But you can just ignore him, sport—unless he says something related to our new friend.” Sinclair presented Delta with the photograph of the dark-haired woman. He met Delta’s eyes through the lens of the helm. “I would also find that to be extremely likely, if you catch my meaning, chief.”

 _Listen. Gather information. But if Atlas attempts to interfere, kill him._

Sinclair patted Delta on the big metal armored shoulder. “Right, well, take care and good luck. Do some exploring, son. I’ll be monitoring our signal if you need something—it’s private, so don’t worry about the gossip hounds getting to us. I usually play all my favorite jazz music. You’ll wanna go to Pauper’s Drop and enter Fontaine Futuristics via the access tunnel. It’ll be locked but if you repair cameras on the way—it will allow us the range to override it remotely. At least, ” Sinclair chuckled, “that’s what the tech folk tell me.”

Delta headed out of the Garden. Usually that cough syrup smell was in his head much sooner. Sinclair had either talked longer than usual or he hadn’t hit the charge correctly. It didn’t matter, he supposed. Go find this girl. Kill anyone who tries to interfere. Except the boy with her—he might be useful. Let him follow them back, if possible.

Sinclair chattered so idly often around him that coming to understand what he _wasn’t_ saying hadn’t even been conscious to Delta. Maybe it was obvious? After all, they’d made him a killer, a bodyguard, for Eleanor. To protect Eleanor. That’s what mattered. Nothing else.

Bring back the girl for Eleanor. 

Bring back the girl.

 

 

_—wipe away the—_

“Mister D?” Lorna was saying, shaking Booker. “Mister D? Wake up. You have to wake up. Mister D—“

Booker grabbed her shoulders to steady her. “Lorna,” he said, quietly. “What’s wrong?”

“We have to go, Mister D. They don’t wait for slow pokes. If we don’t do it by dinner, there’ll be such a whippin.”

“Nobody is gonna whip you while I’m here, Lorna.” Booker caught her amber-gold eyes. “You follow me?”

“You’re nicer than some of the other Daddies. They tried to X your eyes,” she informed him, drawing little X-marks in the air with her finger. 

“Do you know of any way we can help them? Like Jack helps the Little Sisters?”

“Sometimes they out of them suits.”

“The suits can come off?” Booker asked, sitting back against the wall and letting Lorna sit next to him. She looked, perhaps, six or seven. Her hair was full of tight ringlets but her eyes were over-large and tired. 

She was still tense under his palm but she answered. “Sometimes, and they got a noose. All Daddies got a noose.” She pointed to her throat, clasping her own hands around it. “Metal noose keeps his armor together. His hat and his coat.”

Booker stood up in Langford’s laboratory. They had holed up here after arriving at Atlas’ advice. She was some scientist, like Lutece, but when they tried to talk with her—Ryan gassed her. Jack had run for the door, slamming against it. Booker went for the glass. 

Elizabeth brightened, stepping up to use the Gravity Well plasmid she’d found. It sucked up things into it. Like locks, bots, trash, bullets and corpses. Elizabeth was still learning how to use it but she managed to cast it—and then shot the gravity orb up into the vent. Langford was thrown across the room into her worktable. She was hacking, struggling to keep her mouth and nose covered. Her fingers were coated in blood and her legs had snapped like twigs from the impact. But the poison swam back up into the vents and formed a little lump there. 

“If he could do that, why didn’t he just do it from the beginning?” Elizabeth asked, putting a hand on her hip.

“Maybe he didn’t actually want to have to kill people,” Jack suggested, shrugging. 

“Elizabeth, come here—this doctor is still alive,” Booker said, easing Langford down to the floor. She stared up at him with watery eyes. 

“Oh, I can help!” Lorna declared, stabbing herself with her injector. 

Booker frowned. “You don’t need to take blood from her, Lorna. She’s not dead.”

“No, not take, Mister D! Don’t be no silly goose!” Lorna stabbed Langford.

The doctor seized in Booker’s arms as Elizabeth knelt down to help him. She took over and Booker wound up the doctor’s necktie so and jammed it into her teeth so she wouldn’t bite her tongue. Lorna stood up, smiling at her handiwork. The doctor’s veins lit with Adam. Elizabeth sat back, staring as the woman began to stir. The bleeding stopped, the chemical burning on her face and throat were gone. It was sort of like what she did with Salts to help Booker….

Elizabeth studied Lorna and her faintly glowing golden eyes. Something in the blood—something in the Sisters’ genetic soup allowed them to heal another? The Adam, presumably? She _willed_ it to remember what it was.

Jack, meanwhile, found Langford’s safe and got it open. He opened up her notes and started going through them, seeing what they needed to save the trees. 

After a lot of shit that ended in a goddamn shootout, they holed up in Langford’s lab, arborous labors accomplished. She was still resting but she was alive. Julie Langford’s legs were completely healed. The woman was not very tall but fierce and opinionated. She had wavy light brown hair, streaked with a few elegant strands of grey, and no-nonsense brown eyes. The more coherent she became, the more warily she started watching the three of them. 

“You were the ones that got me the samples I needed,” she finally managed, voice raspy and rough. 

“That was us,” Jack confirmed.

The doctor looked at them and then down at the floor and then up at them again. “I’m sorry I was so rude earlier.”

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose.

“Tempers were short on all sides,” Booker said quietly.

Langford rubbed her eyes. “That’s a Little Sister, isn’t it?”

“Not anymore,” Jack answered. “Tenebaum gave me a plasmid that can change them back.”

“When the hell did she have time for that?” Langford grumbled. “Almost fifteen years of creating the little things and all this time she could turn them back?”

“I believe it’s a new development,” Atlas threw in from the radio. 

This time, Langford wrinkled her nose. “You would know, wouldn’t you, Atlas?”

“Ah, now, Doctor. There’s no need for that. We gotta help each other in these dark times,” Atlas replied, a leer in his voice.

“I’ll remember that after you’ve gotten these people killed,” Langford said flatly. 

“I think maybe we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot—“ Elizabeth started.

“I think you’re a little young to be telling me where I get off, dear. What are you, an artist?” She disregarded Elizabeth, looking to Booker. “Are you ex-military? Bodyguard?”

“Both.”

“He’s my _father,”_ Elizabeth snapped. “And I’m a _physicist,_ by the way.”

“So not much good for questions regarding plants, I imagine.” Langford crossed her arms. “What about you, young man? Jack, was it?”

“Yeah,” Jack said quietly, still paging through Langford’s notes. 

“And?” Langford said, gesturing next to the air beside her.

“And what? Plane crashed, I came down here—huge mistake, wow. Now Andrew Ryan wants to kill me.”

“Why?” Langford prodded. “What does he give a damn about some damp unfortunates making the god-awful decision to come down here instead of waiting topside for rescue?”

“I don’t fucking know,” Jack said, a little tersely. “Maybe you can ask him for me? You wanna try and page him on the radio? I'm sure he'd be interested to know how _not-dead_ you are.” 

“The rumor is,” Booked stepped in, raising a calming hand, “that it’s because we used the bathyspheres. Apparently, they’re genetically code-locked?”

“Yes, though they were somewhat unreliable,” Langford told them, eyes traveling over Booker’s blood-splattered and half-open shirt. “Apparently anyone as close as a cousin can use them. Cousin to whomever the spheres are coded for. Which in this case, would now only be Andrew Ryan.”

The detective didn’t seem to notice Langford’s gaze. “I take it Ryan doesn’t have family down here?”

Langford managed a little snort. “Oh no. Married to his work and his work alone. Rapture was just his side piece.”

Booker fought a small smile. 

“So he thinks one of us is _related_ to him,” Jack finished. “And that’s why he accused us of being CIA or KGB.”

“Mister Ryan excelled at everything. Especially paranoia.” Langford straightened a little on her couch. “Mister Dewitt, be so kind as to get into the safe. I have a bottle of brandy, if you’d like to partake.”

“Oh. Uh.” Booker looked around blankly for a moment until Jack pointed and the detective went to the safe, a decanter and some clean beakers. 

“Pour one for each of us, Mister Dewitt, there’s a good man. I do apologize if you’re more of a bourbon-drinker?” Langford asked him.

“Oh. Uh. I. Don’t really discriminate,” Booker answered, looking a little off-footed. He poured a few ounces into four small glasses and they all drank.

“So do you plan to leave Rapture?” Langford asked, looking at Booker again. She seemed to have come to the conclusion that he was in charge. Elizabeth was used to this treatment and, while she resented it, she would take the time to really _study_ whoever Booker was talking to. She analyzed every twitch of the eyes, every swaying movement. She'd become pretty good at sniffing out liars while Booker distracted them.

“That’s the eventual goal,” Booker told her as Jack passed out a pack of cigarettes. “Tell you what, ma’am, I wasn’t expecting all this.” He gestured towards the window to indicate Rapture in its entirety.

“Hardly anyone would,” Langford sniffed. And then she sighed. “That being said, I appreciate you not letting Ryan kill me.”

“Seems like there are a lot of problems with that around here.”

“All these spliced up morons care about is killing anyone with a wiff of Adam on them. Ryan uses it like a carrot on a stick via pheromones in the filtration systems of Rapture.”

“And here we thought they just really liked us,” Elizabeth sighed theatrically.

“I have a question for you, Doctor Langford, if that’s all right?” Jack sat down on her workbench, bracing his boot on a turret bot. “We’ve heard about the Little Sisters and Big Daddies and we’ve seen them both but we also heard about a Big Sister. But we haven’t seen one, as far as I know. What are they?”

Langford scowled. “Big Sisters were primarily the work of that Doctor Lamb and her little golem, Doctor Gil Alexander.”

"Wait! Doctor who?" Elizabeth cut in sharply.

“No, Doctor _Lamb,”_ Langford said and rolled her eyes.

"Wait, what?" Booker asked.

“Sofia Lamb, a psychiatrist from the surface, who believes in creating an entity capable of impartial dedication to Lamb’s definition of the common good. She suckered some idiots into a pseudo-religious cult (the original money laundering cash-based business of choice), hardly better than the goddamn Saturnine. She sent me a pretty invitation to join their little 'I Hate Rapture' book group. I told her to piss off. So did Porter, over in Minerva’s Den—made us a bit unpopular with her little club.”

“And Lamb created the Big Sisters?” Elizabeth echoed, as if to clarify.

“Yes—Suchong assisted, as far as anyone knows but it was primarily Lamb and Alexander. They stole what Little Sisters they could. As they grew older, they started conditioning them to fight. But Lamb and her idiots are confined to Lower Rapture so the Big Sisters don't get up here very much. For the best, really--they turn feral once they hit puberty.”

Elizabeth glanced at Booker, then at Jack. “Why is Lamb confined below?”

“Oh, her daughter was taken and turned into a Little Sister. Bad business, the whole thing,” Langford sighed. “She went mad afterwards, hunted for her daughter for almost six years. Ghastly when she finally found the child—her Big Daddy was brutal—but somehow Lamb got her daughter away and now he's her servant. Everyone talks about her Big Daddy like he’s some sort of boogeyman.”

“What was the girl’s name?” Jack said, hardly able to believe this was really happening. How could this all be coincidence? He glanced at Elizabeth, who appeared to be thinking the same thing. 

“Elaine or Elle or Eleanor? Something like that.”

Elizabeth chuckled softly. _Holy shit._ What if this Eleanor was actually Rapture’s version of her? And just who was the False Shepherd? What about Eleanor’s father? 

“I liked Eleanor. Her mama keeps her locked up tight,” Lorna said softly to the floor.

The four adults all looked at the child.

“Have you met Eleanor?” Jack asked her gently, kneeling down so he was eye-level with her.

“She talks to us. Alla us, I think,” Lorna said, big amber eyes narrowed as she thought. “Talks to me too. In our heads. Like the Daddies do.” She poked Booker in the knee. “But not you, Mister D. I haven’t heard you in my head at all. But Eleanor used to live in Pauper’s Drop—where I lived.”

“Where’s that?” Jack inquired.

“It’s in Lower Rapture, where the poorest are shunted out,” Langford explained. 

“She lived with Doctor Lamb in Pauper’s Drop?” Elizabeth prompted, looking at Lorna intently.

“Naw, she lived with Aunt Gracie. And she sure did love Eleanor. Her mama got taken to Persepini—and Nel came to the Drop. Then her Daddy found her. He was a nice Daddy.”

“What was his name?” Booker asked.

“Ser Delta. He was real strong and he was _huge,"_ Lorna told them, standing up and stretching her arms above her as high as she could. 

“Also known as Johnny Topside,” Langford added. “I remember when he disappeared—he was a diver who discovered Rapture by accident in 1950. The official story was that he’d been fingered as a spy and was hauled away to Persephone in the night. Apparently, no one saw it happen.”

“And yet the rumor persisted,” Elizabeth mused. “So someone saw something.”

“So wait a second—how are Lamb and the Big Sisters _confined_ to Lower Rapture?” Jack reminded Langford. “Are those little pods the only method of transportation?”

“No—Lower Rapture is connected by the Atlantic Express—a train. It is connected at a few points into Upper Rapture but nothing can dock there without clearance from Andrew Ryan. And then the Express got shut down. After that, no one really knows what happened. Just rumors and horror stories. So Lower Rapture is really all Lamb has any control of.” Langford looked to Booker again. “I’d also be slow to tell very many people that you or the boy might be related to Ryan. There are plenty here who’d scalp you just for breathing his name.”

“Or try to force us to use the pods for them, I suppose,” Jack mused. 

“Can’t see that going well,” Elizabeth admitted, chuckling softly.

“Are you taking this one when you talk to Andrew Ryan?” Langford asked, nodding to Lorna.

“We sent a couple other Sisters to find Tenenbaum,” Jack answered. “Figure it’s safer for them.”

“Relatively, I suppose,” Langford sighed. “They’re all insane, you know.”

“Seemed pretty likely,” Booker snorted.

“Tenenbaum regrets what she did t’us,” Lorna murmured to the floor, faintly-glowing eyes studying the gun-scorched tile. “She still did evil things. But she wishes she hadn’t. She didn’t have no empathy. She killed her own durin the war up above.”

Booker sat back against the wall. “Do you know what she means, Doctor Langford?”

“Tenenbaum was a German Jew during World War Two,” Langford reported, getting up to dig around her library (which immediately grabbed Elizabeth's attention). She brought back a thick book and tossed it down on the work table. It was entitled: _The Genetic Enlightenment_ and apparently penned by one Brigid Tenenbaum about three years previous. “She was in a Nazi death camp, but hardly as a prisoner. They basically had her doing experiments on other prisoners.”

Booker curled his lip in disappointment. 

“I guess when she developed the Little Sister program, they reminded her of all the terrible things she’d done. So she went rogue.” Langford got up, testing her legs as she turned on a burner to heat some of the brandy.

“She dreams about it,” Lorna added softly. “She dreams every night about the screams. And how she did nothing that helped them.”

“Doesn’t do much damn good now,” Jack grumbled.

Booker looked at his hands and said nothing.

“I suppose better late than never,” Elizabeth reminded them. “After all, without Tenenbaum, we’d have no way to restore the girls.”

“Still though,” Jack replied tersely. 

“Mister Dewitt, more brandy?”

“Just, uh—call me Booker, ma’am,” he requested, swiftly hopping up to join the doctor at the counter. 

“Then call me Julia, if you please.”

Jack rolled his eyes. Elizabeth huffed a little, crossing her arms. 

“Eleanor says to try not to hurt him.”

Jack’s eyes nailed themselves to the kid. “What? Eleanor said that?”

“She heard us,” Lorna confirmed. “She can hear all kinds of things.”

Elizabeth perked. _And I see all kinds of things. Eleanor Lamb. Me, Elizabeth, the Lamb. That can’t be coincidence._

“When did she tell you that?” Jack went on.

“Now. She heard us. She heard you. She said to be careful—cause her mama’s sending her daddy out.”

“Out where?” Jack prodded.

“Out here,” Lorna gestured helplessly. “Everywhere. After us.”

Jack and Elizabeth exchanged glances. 

 

 

 

Ryan had the splicers bring up everything they’d gathered from Detective Dewitt’s office. There were boxes of notes, scattered files, folders on each of the special council. Ryan spread them out. The audacity, the sheer goddamn audacity. This detective had separate files at least two inches thick for Ryan himself, Tenenbaum, Fontaine, Suchong, Lamb, Alexander—so many of them. Who was this man? How long had this Dewitt been spying on Rapture? Why did he know next to nothing about a man who had _this_ much on them all? How the hell had Dewitt gotten ahold of this stuff?

It was full of interviews, documented stories, anecdotes. Under that, it was stuffed by a yellow envelope full of copied documents and some photographs. If the detective _did_ get to the surface before Rapture had turned into a live-in cemetery and had now returned…but _why?_ And more importantly, _how?_

Ryan looked up from his desk to see the splicers that had brought the items up. “Was there any sign of Detective Dewitt?”

“He’s dead,” one woman growled. 

“Beatrice, how you know that?” a man called Barty demanded.

“One of your regular johns?” Another woman teased.

“Yeah, what’s it to you, crab-cunt.” Beatrice looked at Ryan, arms crossed. “Fella comes in, keeps quiet, keeps to himself. He just buys drinks. Nobody likes someone who lingers and watches. So he pays a girl and she sits with him. He’s good-lookin and real polite, so hey, no one minds. Military man topside, I think.”

“Were you one of the girls he sat with?” Ryan asked, rolling his eyes at the splicers’ incessant squabbling. 

“Couple times. There were two or three of us he seemed to like. He never stayed long. He never fucked any of us. I don’t think. One day the visits just stop, one of our runners came in—said someone stuck a shiv in the guy.”

“Dewitt was a detective but he wasn’t no goddamn cop,” Barty grumbled. “He was in the orient in 1944. In one of them Jap torture camps. No one is the same after something like that. And you think someone got a knife in his back?”

“A private detective, no wife, no family, referred an invitation to Rapture by Sullivan. How did he escape?” Ryan mused.

“He didn’t,” Beatrice insisted. “Dewitt is fucking dead as mud. He probably got too deep in whatever made him case the Garden. Maybe Fontaine’s goons whacked him.”

Ryan stopped cold. “What did Fontaine have to do with Eve’s Garden?” 

Beatrice glanced at the others and shrugged a little. “Fontaine did business there. Everyone knows that.”

“I see,” Ryan replied darkly. _Jasmine. Is that how Fontaine found out about Jasmine?_ He’d been so angry, so overwhelmed with rage, that he’d acted without thought. Killed her before he could properly question her. He still dreamed about her whimpering cries, the blood. “Well, I obviously assumed Dewitt was dead by this point—but as you can see,” Ryan turned around and flipped on his projector, “these security photographs were taken _yesterday_ in Arcadia. Dewitt, a woman who claims to be his daughter and a young man who survived a plane crash and somehow activated the bathysphere to get into Rapture.”

“Holy _shit!”_ Beatrice said faintly. “What the….”

“He’s fighting a Big Daddy,” one of the others pointed out.

“He, the girl and the boy have taken down almost half a dozen of the lumbering things.”

“Huh, don’t remember him ever taking down Big Daddies,” Beatrice mused. “I mean, he was strong but he didn’t splice much. And what the hell plasmid is that?” She pointed to the photograph of Dewitt using crows, somehow. Like the Insect Swarm but with birds. 

“No one knows. The girl told Atlas that it was a plasmid from the surface.” Ryan glared up at Dewitt’s face. “I’ll get to the bottom of this. They’re heading for Fort Frolic last anyone knew, yes? See if we can catch them. All three of them. Alive if possible.”


	9. Anomaly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating jump for Past Booker/Annabelle  
> \---------------------------  
> Inclusion of Burial at Sea DLC from Infinite (the implication that the twins took Comstock to a universe where Anna Dewitt didn't exist but _he_ did and the Detective either died previously or was killed by Comstock because there is no mention at all of what happened to Rapture's Dewitt.  
>  \---------------------------  
> Music: Paranoid Par by Par Borstrom: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1-boiXczwhw&list=PLQuOKHNudkmd8XwtZosj0WXzYWpuHjTxz&index=18  
> \----------------------------  
> Also, settling in in Colorado. I've been here since last Saturday (so, 6 days). I got to see mountains again. Mountains, Gandalf.  
> \-----------------------------------
> 
> “Why does this Cohen guy know you?” Jack demanded, still looking grim, bristling up. 
> 
> Booker did a slight double-take at the venom in the kid’s expression. “I…” And then he looked back to Elizabeth. “Okay, I think at this point, we really _have_ to explain.”
> 
> \-----------------------------------

Fort Frolic was a goddamned mess. Sander’s psychotic rambling had all three of them on edge as they crept into some kind of gambling and shopping complex. A cemetery of broken machines, ransacked card tables, strange little shops and themed eateries. 

“Why greetings and salutations,” the artist boomed over some kind of loudspeaker system. “Surprising to see you again, Detective.”

All three of them stopped, glancing at each other. And then a blasting floodlight lit up the center of the hall. The voice boomed again:

“We never spoke but your reputation followed you, Mister Dewitt. How interesting. Is that why Ryan had your office searched? How ghastly!”

Booker exchanged an uneasy look with Elizabeth. Standing behind the two of them, Jack followed their expressions grimly. Perhaps angrily, realizing that they had hidden something big from him (and who knew what else). Something that made them strangely un-confused. Like they knew why this guy was ‘mistaking’ Booker for someone from Rapture.

“Oh, could Atlas not be bothered to tell you? Well, don’t be too upset, Dewitt. As I recall, you look a little younger than I remember—and not nearly so scarred. Perhaps a brother? A lover? A father? It must run in the family. Perhaps you’ll find more in Eve’s Garden. I will watch your little ducklings while you’re there. I’m sure the ladies would enjoy you.” His voice rose to thunder on the loudspeaker. “Dewitt’s a biscuit, isn’t he ladies? Just like your little Songbird. Why did I never know you had a raven beneath your hand? Is she your _daughter_ for only propriety’s sake? Or is that a game you both play?” 

Booker stiffened, expressing turning fiery. “Hey! You shut your goddamn mouth or come down here right the fuck _now,_ pal!”

“Oh, that’s what I like to see, Dewitt. You’ve certainly roughened yourself up, haven’t you? Does she like it? Oh, don’t look so outraged, Dewitt—everyone has a vice. Rapture caters to all. Now, that said, I’ll take care of them while you look around the Garden. There’s a man there you have to kill, you know. To complete my great work. But you must contribute fairly.”

Booker glanced up at the blinding flood light that was following them around (just like fucking Slate--Jesus Christ, just like Cornelias Slate). 

“Oh, not to worry, Papa Dewitt. I won’t harm your little ducklings. Look at them, beauty and grace. I know why _he_ is here. He’ll kill a man I once loved. And I will send you, I’ll let them go with you to Ryan, young Jack. But first—you must assist me. Bring your little Songbird to the Fleet Hall.”

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “What do you want with me?”

“Perhaps you can aid Fitzpatrick. Come, quickly now. To Fleet Hall. Bring this Songbird of yours—chop chop!”

“Songbird….” Elizabeth murmured and suddenly she felt an electric twinge twist around her throat like a choking weed. 

She premiered next week, right? She premiered next week! _Presenting Cohen’s New Songbird!_

_(“I haven’t been in Rapture long, Mister Cohen, and I would love an excuse to frequent your Hall but I’m afraid I’m trying to find someone. Perhaps one of your little gems has heard of him?”)_

“Why does this Cohen guy know you?” Jack demanded, still looking grim, bristling up. 

Booker did a slight double-take at the venom in the kid’s expression. “I…” And then he looked back to Elizabeth. “Okay, I think at this point, we really _have_ to explain.”

She nodded absently. Lorna reached over and touched her palm. “Elizabeth, you gotta stay in your skin. In your own skin. You can’t be in more than one. You ain’t no chicken with feathers.”

Elizabeth rubbed her eyes. “Oh, I, yeah. Uh huh. Thanks Lorna.”

She felt Booker ghost up to her, coming up behind her and putting a warm palm on her shoulder. It cut through the buzzing feeling that had taken over her skin like she could feel the vibrations of her other selves maybe or something. Goddammit, why was this always so complicated and stupid? Booker anchored her back to the earth. Maybe that’s why the Little Sisters liked him so much? He was like their Big Daddy. Only not. _So weird._

This whole place felt odd. All these things happening at the same time and yeah, she was here and maybe a few other selves had been here and they were in potentially uncharted territory but she couldn’t help but feel they were closing in on something. Something important. 

_(You watched yourself make this repair, Elizabeth.)_ Just a flash of rising bubbles, a gravity hook and Atlas flashed in front of her—well, well, well, if it weren’t Cohen’s Songbird. That little minx that fucked her way into Cohen’s inner circle. A saucy twist like her, once she got Cohen to put her face up around Rapture, she had johns begging to wine and dine her. And she was certainly beautiful, an exquisite curvy little feast. And what the god given fuck was someone like this doing down here mucking about and getting some unfortunate old fuck killed on purpose, it sounded like—

_—while Booker played that guitar—_

Elizabeth came back sharply. She and Booker were alone. 

“Jack took them into Robertson’s Tobaccoria. I reckon he’s not gonna take this real well.”

“There wasn’t a whole lot else we could do, right? Also, just gonna mention this Booker, I think I’m hearing things. It might just be the plasmids though. I’m not exactly sure.”

“All right. One thing at a time. We deal with things in the now. Adapt as needed, right?”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes a little and snorted. "Adapt as needed."

Booker gave her a half-crooked smile. “You’re all right, you know.”

That made her smile and rub her eyes and give her father a quick, tight hug. Almost immediately then, she whirled away, eyes clear and focused. Booker stood outside for a moment, running his thumb over his knuckles. Then he quietly followed.

Julie and Lorna settled in curiously. They’d scrounged the area for food and brought it back to the tobacco shop, which had armored doors and an inner wall with a lock.

Booker had watched Jack rewire the thing and input the four digit code. A funny twinge went through the back of his neck. Booker stiffened a little, he _felt_ Elizabeth look at him. Booker swiftly stepped ahead of them into the room. Together, they put the racks up against the windows and drug in all their supplies and gear. Julie pulled a blanket over her knees. 

“Okay, radios are off,” Jack said tersely. His eyes were hard and flinty. “Out with it.”

Langford looked back and forth between them, a little warily now. 

Booker scowled.

Elizabeth began with the Lutece Twins.

 

 

 

She ended with their decision to come to Rapture. 

Langford stared at her like she were some plant she’d never seen before. Jack just looked numb. He seemed…almost lost. 

“Jack…I’m sorry we had to lie to you,” Elizabeth said gently. “But we—“

 _”Are_ you?” Jack demanded. “You can jump through space and time and you saw Rapture and decided to take a joyride via plane crash just for fun?”

Elizabeth’s shoulders curled inward.

“Is it because you can leave whenever you want or that you don’t see us as actual people? And you assholes were giving me so much shit when I said I didn’t remember seeing either of you.” He shook his head, palms at his hips.

“Wait a second,” Langford said suddenly, looking at Booker. “You said she sees things depending on where her other selves have been. Yet, you didn’t know that Rapture was in ruins?”

Elizabeth looked at the ground, avoiding Jack’s eyes. “I saw Rapture as it was before it was ruined. I…I never saw this.” She gestured around to indicate Rapture in its entirety. “Well, until now, I mean.”

Booker peered at her. “Does that mean you’re the first one in uncharted territory?”

Elizabeth curled her hands together, turning her thimble anxiously. “I never…I never thought that…I can see all the doors but probability is just math. It all comes down to percentages and chance. But there also has to be room for outliers. I never thought _we’d_ be outliers, Booker. I’m…sorry. I’m sorry. You were right all along, Booker.”

“Well, he may have been right about _whatever_ but that’s no reason to quit now, dear. You’re clearly clever but you’re still extremely young. You’ve got incredible potential, young lady,” Langford said, almost tersely. “So if it’s simply the unknown, then there’s no reason to be afraid. Cautious, yes—but not fearful. Fear is like poison. It clouds the mind and dulls the senses.” She adjusted her glasses, almost severely. 

And yet, that tone, that stance, that wall of determination—that connected immediately with Elizabeth because it was exactly how Booker had looked out for her in Columbia—

Elizabeth internally forgave Langford’s sharp tongue and impatience and gruffness because she suddenly saw the alternate. A woman who had watched things wither and die and wither and die. She watched people wither and die and could do nothing. She hated to feel helpless and so she took charge of her fate. She didn’t allow it a free ride. This was someone she should respect and be patient with and so: _Elizabeth, why were you so hostile?_

The way she’d look at Booker made Elizabeth feel possessive and mean. This Booker was _her_ Booker and she’d be god-fucking-damned if he died on her watch. _(If she took him away!)_

_A kneejerk reaction, and childish besides._

Correct, she must remember that—even from the first moment she’d met Booker Dewitt as the man who plunged through her ceiling and scared her half to death—she must remember: he was handsome. Simply a biological reaction for the opposite gender (and sometimes the same gender) to find him attractive. It was nothing he could control, nothing she could control—it was simply biological programming. Be logical about it.

_Yeah. He doesn’t need you to protect him. He needs you to be smart and unbiased and logical. Also, he’s your father so don't be possessive of him. He's a person. Not a thing._

Elizabeth took a silent breath, held it for a few seconds, and then slowly breathed out. “Thank you, Julie,” she said, quite sincerely. “I needed to hear that.” 

Her mind calmed, like a dissipating storm. She smiled a little, faint and tired.

 _Trust Booker. He’s smarter than you._

Elizabeth looked at Jack first. “I’m sorry, Jack. It was wrong of us to lie to you. And I admit, I’ve seen so many different versions of myself, that sometimes it is difficult to parse reality from it. That was wrong of me. Booker kept telling me and I didn’t listen. I didn’t realize because...sometimes I get lost in my own world, kind of. I’m self-centered, really. I just realized it. So, thank you. And, I’m sorry.”

Something in Jack’s eyes softened. He examined her face as he stepped towards her. “Elizabeth…just, from now on then. No more lies. From any of us. No more lies. We can’t keep lying to each other down here or we’ll never get out of this place. Clearly, you want to see this through to the end and I may need your help if I go totally bananas down here. Because I don’t know what’s happening to me but I can’t remember shit and I’m losing names and dates and I can’t remember….what my _mother_ looked like. But I just saw her a week ago. I know I did but I can’t _remember.”_ Jack shuddered, shoulders curling in. He felt the cold armor of the Winter Blast plasmid shell over him instinctively. 

Lorna sat beside Jack, putting her little blanket on his shoulders, as if to comfort him. She patted his back like she might have occasionally seen adults do. Still, it made him feel a little better—reminded him of where he was. 

He felt Elizabeth move, though he wasn’t sure how. He sensed her presence, her warmth, the scent of clean linen. She smelled like the breeze, like the first time he’d felt a breeze on his skin. Was it weird to remember a moment like that? Surely, he must have known? Was it just a particularly pleasant breeze? 

_(No, it was the first. The real one. The real ghostly touch of natural air from a wide, blue sky that was endless. Surely they were going to fall right into it. He felt so light—)_

“It’s all right, Jack. I promise, we are going to help you. I’m going to fix this. _We_ will fix this. We’ll find Eleanor and this Doctor Lamb—we’ll get answers one way or another.”

“Then let’s rest and then we’ll deal with this Cohen guy and get the hell out of here,” Booker said gruffly. 

“Lorna, you should head for Olympus Heights,” Jack said quietly, looking up at the child under his hair.

“If I find other Sisters can I bring them to you?”

Jack smiled gently. “Of course, absolutely. Can you find me from the vents?”

“So long as they get your scent,” Booker said, absently. 

“Yep, yeah Mister D!” Lorna giggled and bounded up to Jack. 

That finally made the guy smile and he picked her up. Lorna made a big show of nosing into his shoulders like an exuberant puppy. “Right-o, daddy-o,” Lorna said, beaming at him. “Now I got your smell. That’s the Big Brother smell.” She reached out and tapped him on his nose. “Boop!”

“Wait,” Jack said, whirling around to look at Booker. He put Lorna down. “How did you know the Sisters only needed to remember your scent?”

Booker blinked and paused. “What? Wait, what?”

_(”Lorna, let’s get you cleaned up. What happened to you, kiddo?”)_

“Booker?” Elizabeth murmured. Her voice was lost in the haze, half-remembered dreams and nightmares. Places he’d never been, a woman he didn’t know, a prison he knew and yet, did not. A brown Middle Eastern kid, asking about—

_(“—Eleanor Lamb. She went missing and no one will do anything because of that Andrew Ryan! I don’t care about the politics, I just…she….we wanted to leave Rapture and see the places. See them…see the…”)_

Eleanor Lamb again. Eleanor Lamb. Eleanor Lamb. What was the deal with this girl?

_(“Give me the girl, Dewitt!”)_

(—wipe away the—)

“Booker? Booker!” Elizabeth jumped up.

“Yeah, I’m just—“

“Booker, you’re bleeding. Your nose.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Langford demanded. She hurried over to Booker, pulling out a kerchief and holding it to the poor man’s nose. He looked like he was having a fit, the unlucky bastard. 

“It _means_ that another Booker Dewitt existed here and is dead. So now Rapture-Booker’s memories get filtered into my Booker’s head.”

Julie stared at her. “That’s _horrible!_ It could be doing all kinds of damage to him!”

“No, no,” Booker murmured, feeling salty blood sting his chapped lips. “Made my choice. It’s fine.”

“It’s fine, he says!” Langford threw her hand up in the air in disbelief. “What if he’s having a seizure? Or an aneurysm or something! You could be frying his brain cells to bits.”

“To be fair, there weren’t really that many to begin with,” Booker mumbled, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He reached up to take over holding Langford’s kerchief. She surrendered it but absently touched the side of his neck instead, as if to comfort.

He closed his eyes to ride out the wave of dizzy nausea. Despite her prickly words, he felt Langford’s grip soften, unconsciously attempting to be comforting.

Annabelle used to do that. When he’d wake up from the nightmares, she would hold him and stroke her fingers through his hair and he would shake out the stench of burnt hair and flesh and shit and blood.

Sometimes, he would be flooded with a sudden rush of adrenaline and he’d grab her by her narrow hips and pull her into him, pushing the fabric of her flannel nightdress away. He would feel the hot little jolt it sent through her when he got aggressive. Her nipples were already hard when he cupped her breasts, massaging at them as he breathed in against her throat. She’d roll her body up against him and in a flash he’d be tugging the nightdress away so he could wrap his lips around one while he teased and worked the other. Sometimes he’d slide a hand down, cup her inner thigh and just gently rub and massage there. It sent the shivers right up through her. And she’d be slick by the time he finally touched her. Slide fingers up inside of her or maybe leave her breast and kiss down between them, urging her to lie back. He rubbed his warm palms over her sides, molding her against him as he slid down her hips. Booker always found reward in the softest, most well-hidden parts of her that made her moan, made her forget to be quiet, those were his favorite. Bringing her over that edge, to her limit and then bending a little more.

She let him take control when the nightmares made him feel like he had none. She knew Booker wouldn’t hurt her. And sometimes it felt _amazing_ to just let him get rough with her—

Annabelle was always so responsive, her body was sensitive. She reacted to every shift in the air, at least at first. The nervousness and fear faded when Booker didn’t harm her. When he didn’t mind getting her relaxed enough to come—it was like a brutal game of self-control. The more he watched her orgasm under him, the harder he got. The more he wanted, the more intensely he had to focus to keep control. Until he’d had enough or finally snapped and then he’d grab her from behind, hands cupping her breasts. He’d massage them roughly as he ran his mouth up to her ear. He slid against her from behind, cock slicked up on her cunt. That always made her arch her hips _just so_ and his hands would drag down her body, grab her by the hips and thrust inside of her. 

She would moan, writhing around his cock, adjusting to him. Being inside of her. Anchored deep _in_ her. And he’d grab her hips and rock her up and bring her back down—rough but never enough to harm her. It would be wet, deep and she’d get a noseful of his spicy musk and god-bless, it would make her arch into him like the raciest girl at the tavern. He’d bite at her throat until he couldn’t stand it anymore. Booker moved like a fighter born, smooth and graceful as he urged Belle onto her hands and knees and god, she ground right up against him. He’d grabbed her hips and he’d _fuck_ her. 

And—

 

Booker shook himself. _Anya. Annabelle. Anya. Annabelle. Lady Comstock. Annabelle. Lady Comstock? Anya. Wait, why Lady Comstock?_

Booker screwed his eyes shut, trying to force his focus back. He felt Elizabeth ghost up on his other side, kneeling beside him to help wipe the blood away. There was more than usual—or at least, more than the other times this had happened.

Jack went on like nothing was happening. “What about you, Langford? You want to head for Olympus Heights with Lorna or stay with us? She’ll be safe in the vents on her own.”

Langford looked between the child and Booker. “Well, dammit. What good am I in a fight? You said Tenenbaum is in the Heights, right?” She narrowed her eyes.

“If you could go there,” Elizabeth said quietly, “make sure Tenenbaum isn’t hurting any of them. Set her straight if she is.”

“I can guide you!” Lorna said eagerly, shaking at Langford’s hand. “You’ll be Auntie Julie. I can feel you now.”

“Oh boy,” Langford sighed and rubbed her forehead. ”Fine. I’ll go check up on Tenenbaum. If nothing else, I might be able to turn off the pheromone dispensers around Rapture.” She turned to Jack and offered out a vial. “This is a plasmid I helped develop. Insect Swarm—it uses bees. Much like Dewitt’s crow plasmid.”

“Bees?” Elizabeth squawked.

Jack took it, ignoring her stricken expression. He stabbed it into his arm and he could _feel_ his mind _swim_ with Adam, with power, with the _will_ to change things as he saw fit. To _make_ it bend to his will if he could just clear his fucking head. He almost felt normal when he took in Adam. But the feeling faded fast. He patted Lorna and made sure her clothes were snug and warm before he commanded Langford to take her hand and follow Lorna. 

Langford looked over the boy before she turned away. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. He wasn’t sleeping much. And he looked about five feet from the edge of something. She looked at Booker with raised eyebrows. _Are you sure about this?_

Booker caught her glance and gave her a small nod. _We got him._

So Langford reluctantly parted from them, heading to Olympus Heights with Lorna. 

When they emerged from the Tobaccoria, a drone with a lamp followed them. When Jack tried to force the door to Eve’s Garden, it kicked back a nasty shock. When Elizabeth attempted to pick it manually, it bit back as well.

“Now, now, the Garden is not for ducklings,” Cohen scolded. “I control all the doors and you put me off and so I had to kill poor Fitzpatrick so _get to Fleet hall.”_ He laughed, an edge of hysteria in it. “After all. The show must go on, right, Dewitt! You knew that, didn’t you!”

Booker scowled, pulled out his shotgun, and blasted the drone out of the air. The floodlamp went out like a snuffed candle. 

 

When they arrived in Fleet Hall, a young man was gutted and displayed on a piano. 

“Art is _passion!”_ Cohen hissed. “He lacked it and without a Songbird, no one could save him. He burst like a star but burnt away too soon! Onto the stage, my sweet. A camera for your escorts—ah, the young wolf and the weathered bear. A handsome triangle.”

“I’m definitely killing this guy,” Booker said grimly.

“Take a fucking number,” Jack grumbled. 

“Would you two cool it? It is literally the oldest trick in the insult book. No matter what our actual relationships are, he will make it out to be sexual in nature, just to get a rise out of us. He's just a perverted creep. I've met tons like him.” Elizabeth approached the stage straight-backed, looking fearless.

“Aren’t you picturesque, my dear? What is your name?” His voice rang out from somewhere in the theater.

“Elizabeth,” she replied, looking up into the lights.

“A promising talent. But you don’t need hangers on. So we will see what your companions are made of. Papa Dewitt will explore the brothel to his heart’s content. Your mark is an apprentice of mine. Formally. And likely drunk. But do what you like afterwards. Just take his picture, Detective. You’re good at that, aren’t you? I recall a few little birds who eventually gave me your name. After some persuasion. Now! Off with you, Dewitt! The Garden awaits!”

“You can fuck—“

“Now you, young Jack. Poseidon Plaza, if you please.”

“Why do I have to stay here?” Elizabeth demanded.

“Oh, but I need your sweet serenade here, my dove. And I don’t want you cheating. In Rapture, everyone pulls her own weight.”

“I am not leaving you here with him,” Booker snapped tersely.

“I say you will, Detective, if you wish to know what happened to dear, sweet Sally.”

Booker froze. ”What…” His vision blurred and suddenly he _did_ remember Sally. A young blond girl, a posterchild of Rapture. “She’s dead,” he said, faintly.

“I suppose if you want to know, you best go to the brothel. I’m sure she has a few daddy issues you could help her with.”

“Look,” Elizabeth snapped, hands on her hips, “this is _not_ the Detective that you know! So take your grudge out on someone else!”

Cohen was quiet for a few moments and he chuckled softly. “Don’t worry, my sweet, I will.”

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes and looked at Booker. “I can handle this guy, Booker. Go take his stupid pictures. Just remember to come back.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. They will know your safety is ensured because you will sing while they hunt. And upon completion of this collaboration, your voice will carry us to climax, my Songbird.”

“Can you shut up with all your stupid innuendo?” Jack commanded. “How cheap is your material? I mean, at least _pretend_ you're an actual writer!”

Cohen was silent for another moment. “Do return to me, Jack. I could tell you many things.”

“Hopefully, your last will and testament before I blow a hole in your neck,” Booker grumbled.

“The feeling is mutual, Detective. I’m sure Amir will think so too. He was the one who supposedly saw you die. Fascinating. He’ll be so surprised to see you. And here everyone thought it was just Adam madness when the police showed up to his office and found one Booker Dewitt—with a good deal whiter hair than you and perfectly alive—”

_("Mister Dewitt! I got it! I—“)_

“Where is Amir?” Because yeah, he remembered Amir, right? He remembered looking over the stranger’s shoulder, feeling slow and thick-witted and stunned and then suddenly spying the kid’s face in the floor, under the heat grate (cause he was too big for the Sister vents now) and then that sharp _stab—_

_Someone stabbed me. I mean. Him. Someone stabbed Rapture’s Booker and Amir saw it._

“I’d no idea you’d colored your hair with Tonics, Dewitt. I can certainly give you some tips there. No judgement. After all, it’s done you well.” A red light flooded the stage, casting Elizabeth in suggestive shadow. “But perhaps you’ll find Amir here in the Frolics. Go have fun, Detective.” 

_There was another Booker here as well._

What the fuck happened in this reality? Booker could feel it bone deep. Why else would memories of Lady Comstock be in his head too? 

_(Annabelle, Lady Comstock, Anya)_

A Booker that looked like him, this Detective he kept hearing about. Something had happened to him. He’d been stabbed and a boy named Amir had witnessed it. But Booker _also_ remembered Comstock being here, grey-haired instead of brown, stepping into that same office to search for the Detective—

The Lutece twins found him a reality where Anna Dewitt never existed and there was a Booker already there with a spot for him to step into. But, the Lutece twins emphasized, the choice was Comstock’s. He made his choice, stabbed the Detective—who was stunned to suddenly see _himself_ —and Comstock took his place. Comstock would then get the dead Detective’s memories and tried desperately to believe they were his own. Holy fucking shit. So that probably meant that the Comstock was dead too. What the fuck was going on in this reality? _That_ could not be coincidence because now _they_ were here too.

_I’m seriously a piece of shit in every goddamn reality. Jesus Christ. Fucking Comstock. Fuck that guy._

But what the hell was going on? This _couldn’t_ be normal. Even for them. Even for Elizabeth.

“Now, as I’ve said. Go. Or I’ll just gas her to death and we’ll take pictures of _her.”_

So Jack and Booker reluctantly left Fleet Hall. 

“We should just do this together—“ Booker started.

“No,” Jack cut him off. “I need to be by myself for a while. If you can’t handle the brothel then wait here until I come back.”

Booker paused, eyeing the kid like someone might an unknown guard dog. “Jack, I think maybe—“

“I think you just need to leave me alone for a while, Dewitt.”

Booker raised his palms. “All right, I gotcha. Be careful.”

“You’re the one bleeding out of your nose and ears, old man,” Jack replied stonily. His face was like a mask as he stalked away. 

 

 

Did it even matter if this fucking Plaza was iced over? Jack could crackle fire in his fist. Jack was tired of being dicked around. Jack couldn’t help but feel a little lost without Atlas able to buzz in and out. Sometimes they spoke on a different channel. Atlas had suggested it and honestly, what was the harm? Especially given Booker’s hostility. And the lying, of course. _Of course._

Atlas was right. Everyone lies. He couldn’t sleep. The nightmares were constant. And then whatever the hell was going on with Elizabeth and Booker collapsing universes or whatever. Like they didn’t have enough to fucking worry about.

Small goals. He had to make small goal, small steps—like Atlas had advised. Break down what you gotta do into bits you can manage. Jack could focus on helping the Little Sisters. They were the true fucking victims here. Not some goddamn time witch.

Small goals. Like this stupid crazy asshole Finnegan. Kill him. Make him red. X his eyes. Tear them out. Tear _him_ out. Limb from limb, gene by gene—

He heard the ice before it hit him. He whirled around, bellowing in frustration and rage as the darkness closed in. 

_Goddammit, god-fucking-dammit, stop hurting--_

Red eyes gazed back.

No wait. Not eyes. Eye. Just one glowing red eye.


	10. Cohen's Songbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This other Elizabeth stepped through tear after tear after tear, shredding possibilities the closer she got to exterminating Comstock. It sent a raw chill through her.  
> \---------------------
> 
> I've been in Colorado for about a month now. Things haven't quite settled down yet, so still kind of flailing around as I try to get job/money/bills squared away. (December 2017)
> 
> \------------------------------------

“Your mother’s dead!” Booker insisted.

“Yeah, and I think it’s about time I paid my respects.”

Booker full-stopped for a moment. Then, “No, hey—look, we can—“

“Memorial Gardens are over here, Booker,” Elizabeth said, tone stony and cold as she walked across the corpse-scattered square that fronted Comstock’s Compound. There was the statue there of Lady Comstock.

Booker felt, again, a strange sort of lingering itch in his mind. Like he should know something about the statue. The woman was a beauty, as expected of any man as wealthy as Comstock. But he’d dismissed her as just another trophy wife and paid no attention to her. 

Until right now, as the sky burned red and smoke billowed into the cold sky like thunderheads. 

_(Cast in flame—)_

“Booker, c’mon!”

But he didn’t. He was still staring up at the virtuous Virgin Mary statue of Lady Comstock. Her first name was never spelled out. He wondered, for a moment, what it was. “Elizabeth, Comstock only started all this shit because they said he had some kind of vision. Was that before or after he met Lutece?”

_(—the mountains of man—)_

Elizabeth shrugged, looking annoyed and impatient. “I think after. C’mon, let’s go. We can go check out their lab in a second. Hurry up or I’m going without you.”

Booker sighed at the statue, unable to shake the strange feeling. But he headed after Elizabeth, whose bad mood he couldn’t fault. He wasn’t feeling real great about all this either.

But when Comstock hooked into Elizabeth like a goddamn battery, Booker grabbed her. He pulled her into him, trying to snuff out the electric pulses racking her slender body. Could he redirect them somehow? He threw Shock Jockey crystals at the walls and bars and the coffin and it drug off of Elizabeth like a spider web. 

She collapsed, sopping blood from her ears, mouth and nose. Booker held her until the shocks died.

And then something _shrieked._

The raging specter that Comstock tore out of Elizabeth’s tear, screaming at how the girl wasn’t hers. So she was a bastard child. So who _was_ her mother? And now that he was thinking about it, why did she keep saying ‘her mother’, when it was pretty clear Lady Comstock wasn’t her mother at this point. And hadn’t she never known that the Comstocks were supposedly her parents? She hadn’t even known about the Lamb of the Prophet business—hadn’t even known Comstock had any child at all and there were statues of it all over the place. 

_(“A child born of some unholy science.”)_

And suddenly, the specter whirled around. The corpses fell and she breathed up to him. Booker took a step back, putting a protective arm in front of Elizabeth—

“WHO WAS SHE?!”

_(“I know the prophet is a liar. But he cannot be.”)_

And suddenly, Booker’s uneasy suspicions were confirmed. Comstock had definitely killed his Lady. She was good, she truly seemed to be. But her life also appeared to have been hard and she saw herself being betrayed again. To her death. 

It was perfect, of course. Comstock throttles his wife, blames it on the black maid, Daisy Fitzroy—she will get no trial, she knows. So she does the only sensible thing and bolts.

_(“This lie that has followed me my whole life! It wasn’t until I burned the teepees with the screaming squaws inside—“)_

That was almost _too_ much. How could Comstock have…it was odd. It made Booker uncomfortably aware that this man was claiming to have led the Seventh….and he spoke like he had been there. And yet, Slate didn’t remember him and Booker sure as shit didn’t remember the bastard. And yet he claimed an experience that Booker himself had had….

A source of disgusting shame that he was so insecure about who he was that he murdered defenseless women and children and men so that his fellows would stop mocking him, would stop implying he was somehow _less_ because he might be part-Souix. The shame that he killed people for something as pointless as race…and afterwards no one spoke to him. They’d all been afraid of him when he’d demanded to know if he’d murdered enough _children_ for them? Was he _white_ enough for them now—

If Comstock had had that experience—then he must not have been too ashamed because here he was in his goddamn fiefdom, doing the same thing to minorities in Columbia. No wonder he only liked rich, white people who pretended their religion elevated them above others. Asshole. One of those people that ‘finding religion’ somehow makes them _worse_. A dunk in some water doesn’t wipe away a person’s sins. 

_(“I have done what a man can do but there is no child! I spoke to Lutece about the matter but even she refused to help.”)_

Lady Comstock was in good health, it seemed. Until Comstock throttled her. Sounds like she got too close to some truth. And god-be-damned, Elizabeth was about to cut her hand off. How could he even _consider_ doing that? It was his _wife_ , for Chrissakes, her mother.

_(“He is quite sterile! And I told the poor woman so. The child is a product of our contraption. She found that less believable, it seems.”)_

Her footprints on the grime-encrusted stone seemed so wavering. And somehow…familiar, in a weird sort of way. Like he suddenly remembered Annabelle’s soft footsteps and felt a twinge of misplaced fondness. After all, this siren wasn’t Annabelle. He was just projecting.

But it was strange to listen to her musical voice, even as a specter, and feel her eyes ghost over him. Her whispers were disjointed, like he could almost make out what she was saying. There was just…something confusing about her. But then, she was part-ghost, part manifestation-of-anger so. Maybe he wasn’t really supposed to understand.

_(Booker—)_

A ghostly touch on the side of his neck, brushing his dirty collar. He stiffened a little, touching his throat with the meat of his left palm. 

_(It wasn’t your fault.)_

“Booker?” Elizabeth murmured, touching his arm, the other at his chest. “Are you all right? Booker?”

“I didn’t mean to,” he heard himself reply. “But I did it and I can’t remember why.”

“Did what, Booker?”

He finally looked into her piercing blue eyes. For a moment they reminded him of Annabelle’s eyes, sitting in cozy as the blizzard draped New York in snow—

And then Elizabeth cleared before him. “I don’t remember,” he managed. Booker shook himself, breathing in slow. “Okay, I’m okay. I’ll figure it out later. C’mon, looks like your mother cleared the way. She saved us, if nothing else.”

Elizabeth turned her head and _watched_ a wispy ethereal hand touch Booker’s back. It was comfortable in placement, familiar. Another touched his arm and he staggered in his step, turning with her wavering touch. 

_They wanted you to understand her, Elizabeth._

Elizabeth breathed, watched Booker look into nothing. But his eyes went down and settled on the footprints. That was what he _could_ see. 

Maybe that was what he wanted to see? But for just a flicker, the whole form of her flared pale yellow. It was almost like she shifted depending on who she interacted with directly? It wasn’t fair, watching Lady Comstock’s wispy form fade in murmurs and whispers and not be able to understand. She watched something tremble through Booker’s somber green eyes, as he likely remembered Anna—the woman she assumed Booker had lost to childbirth.

Maybe Lady Comstock had mistaken him for a younger Comstock? He and Booker both had green eyes, after all. Certain objects can make certain colors stick out. Things that held emotion can hold history, can hold possibility, can inspire creativity. Maybe her mother only remembered that detail (somber green eyes) about whoever Comstock had been when she met him. 

_I hope there’s a world where she can save him. Turn him from all this. I wonder if I’d never get to meet Booker though…_

 

 

But it paled compared to the cold dread that nailed her in place when the bird slammed into the platform. It was on Booker, throwing him down. She heard bones crack and blood bubble from him but she couldn’t move fast enough—

And that fucking bird threw him like a stone. Oh god, he was dead. He had to be dead. He just hit a plate window—

That got her up, throwing herself to the nearest skyhook to get to the building. She slammed through a crystal clear, picture window, and rolled (like Booker had shown her) as she scattered glass everywhere. The young woman staggered up, shaking off any hurts and sprinting like a demon up the stairs. She heard the bird attack the building. God, he’d peel this place open like a tin can! She slid around the corner and saw him, saw Booker. She dashed to his side, skidding to her knees next to his prone body. “Oh, Booker! Booker!” 

There was so much blood and broken glass. She found a tear (wish fulfilment indeed) and the Salts helped her bring it through, replacing cells that had been destroyed. Just like a computer punch card. Get one and then replicate it. Elizabeth whirled around as Booker stirred and the bird peeled off the dome of the building. 

The wind howled around them like a monsoon—Elizabeth’s ragged clothes whipped into the wind. And—

And this had happened too, hadn’t it? A struggle for—

No one takes _this_ Booker away. He was _her_ Booker and fuck this goddamn brainwashed bird! 

“No!” She shrieked it into the wind and then pulled a support beam out of a tear from above her, whipping it at the Songbird, smashing him away. Elizabeth breathed deep, reaching for Shock Jockey and blasting out a net. A goddamn web of caged electricity and chunks of crystal planted into the walls remaining above them. Elizabeth took out her pistol and switched to Return to Sender, planting a shield over herself and Booker. 

Songbird screeched and suddenly the soldier was aware and lifting his rifle. He looked mostly stunned, operating on muscle memory as he lifted to his shoulder and pulled the trigger. The sniper rifle slammed a round right into Songbird’s left eye at almost point blank range. 

The bird roared and dove down on them, into the net first and she _heard_ the metal of Songbird’s frame crackle and smoke. Booker staggered up—

And Songbird opened his bloodrusted beak and the lightening from the net arced, blasting into her shield. Elizabeth was blown back against the wall. The metal gave in a heavy dent and she flailed out, reflexively trying to grab into something—

Booker was suddenly there. She smelled gunpowder and pipe tobacco and heard the violent shrieking of crows burst around them. Dewitt grabbed her around the waist and pulled her up. “Elizabe—!”

Songbird screamed, bellowing and roaring and suddenly, he whirled, planting his claws into a chunk of shock crystals. Lightening arced from his bloodrusted beak. The bolt was white hot and it hit Booker in the back. 

Her heart stopped, everything stopped—watching the life fade from his stubborn eyes and falling, collapsing onto the floor in a heap. The whole building suddenly tilted and he slid across the ruptured floorboards—

“No! No! Booker!” And then Songbird snatched her up. Elizabeth screamed and beat against the metal claws. She used up all of her Salts and unloaded her pistol in Songbird’s face before he used his other fist to smother her movement. “Let me go! Or I swear to God, I will kill all of you! Comstock!” She shrieked raggedly into the wind as Songbird slammed out of the domed building.

“Booker!” She threw her empty pistol down by his unmoving left ankle, as if she could annoy him into doing it. He was foaming blood at the mouth and nose and ears, God he still hadn’t moved, oh God, please no, not her only friend, not—

And then his eyes cleared—

 

 

 

But his head felt like he’d been hit with a crowbar. Jack shuddered as chunks of ice fell away. He collapsed to his knees.

“Jack?”

It occurred to him to look up. And there, in a weird diving suit and armed with a sort of arm bayonet, was—

“Caper!” Jack’s annoyance and anger evaporated like water. He staggered up. “Caper, I didn’t know you were coming back. What were you doing down here? Did that creep Cohen catch you? Did you find Tenenbaum?”

Caper looked as though she’d had a meal or two since he’d seen her…however many days ago that had been. “We found Tenenbaum and she wasn’t hurting anyone. And then Ms Julie showed up with Lorna and they said they’d seen you. And that Atlas ran away. And his family is dead.”

“Can’t blame a man for mourning,” Jack said, folding his arms. 

“You’re sad too.” She gazed up at him. “Did you find Eleanor?”

“We haven’t been able to yet, Caper. We will though, I promise.”

“Her mother sent her papa out to get you.”

Jack stared at her. “Did Lorna tell you that?”

“Yep yep, Mister J. But it’s true. Tenenbaum caught him on videos. She’s trying to keep eyes on him. He came up from Pauper’s Drop.” Caper smiled a little. “He’s in Neptune’s Bounty now.” And then she looked anxious again. 

“Oh shit, that’s right—that stupid guy and the photograph.” That was when Jack suddenly noticed about three other bodies and Finnegan. “What the—what happened to them?”

Caper looked at the four splicers, then back at Jack. “They’re dead.”

“But how? What killed them?”

Caper shifted on her feet, eyes drifting down. “He froze you. Now he’s dead.”

Jack looked over the diving suit again and the arm blade…which was definitely coated in blood. “Caper—“

“Where’s Mister D?”

“Wha—Dewitt? I dunno. He’s…” Jack sighed heavily, remembering his earlier agitation. “Cohen sent him to the brothel.”

Caper studied him. “He’s not from here. But there were two others.”

“I can barely wrap my head around Rapture, Caper—I think I’m all tapped out for crazy shit. Elizabeth is some kind of time-dimension…..witch? Uh? I don’t even know what to call her.”

Caper pushed on his arm. “You call her Elizabeth. That’s who she is. She knows something is wrong here, just like Eleanor does.”

Jack sat down with her in the next room that wasn’t coated in ice. It was a small apartment or office. There was a couch and Jack got a fire started in the hearth. She simply watched him, quiet and still. 

Finally, Jack spoke, “What do they know that the rest of us don’t?”

Caper looked down. “I don’t know. I can’t understand it. It’s all flashes. Tears in the air that have music or people, one who looks like Elizabeth but not. One who looks like Mister D but not. One who looks at Mister D and remembers all the pieces she lost to the rain. Eleanor might understand. I can’t….hear it enough.”

“They lied to me.”

“Everyone lies,” Caper said softly. “Even you. Even when you don’t know it.” Her arms curled in around her knees. “I have to tell people that I used to drink blood.” She shuddered a little. “Tenenbaum would like that. Made her go all dark-eyed, because I still see the Adam. It glitters and shines in everything. She likes talking about it. Julie told her about you. I stayed in case Julie said mean things. But she didn’t.”

“You stayed?”

“She doesn’t get to tell no lies. No one gets to tell lies anymore.” Caper absently touched the arm-blade.

Jack became very still, watching the young girl finger the edge. “Caper, are you okay?”

She looked up at him, eyes emerging from some other spot in her head. “Yes. This is a Big Sister suit. They told me. It’s too big but I’ll grow into it. I’m a Big Sister now. Only I’m not Doctor Lamb’s. They told me I could choose what I wanted to do.”

“When?”

“Before I left the Heights.”

“Tenenbaum told you that?”

“Yes. So I chose to leave and find you so I could help protect you. A lot of my sisters are too young or dead. So I need to help. But I won’t help Tenenbaum. I don’t like her.” 

Jack couldn’t really fault her for that. He couldn’t even imagine what it was like being subjected to Tenenbaum’s experiments. And she’d _known_ about Adam’s horrific effects on the mind but sold it as a business tool to Fontaine anyway. She was to blame for a large chunk of all this. Fontaine seemed to be holding up the other end. A ‘friend’ to watch her back, indeed. 

Yet, Caper had left the other Sisters there with the woman. Although, Julie was there now and she seemed a bit more stubborn than Tenenbaum. And Langford seemed a bit more likely to slap the kraut upside the head if she did anything stupid. 

“Will you help me, instead?” Jack said gently.

That made Caper look up at him, clearly hoping he would ask from her relieved expression. “I want to help you, Big Brother Jack. I want to help.”

Jack studied her peaked little face and felt his earlier frustration dissipate. Suddenly, being angry at Booker and Elizabeth seemed pointless. “Okay, then let’s go help Booker. Cohen sent him to the brothel. I should never have separated from him. And who knows what the hell Elizabeth is doing with that asshole, Cohen. He’s fucking crazy.”

Caper nodded. “He hurt people.”

“Who?” Jack inquired quietly.

“Everyone.”

“….you?”

Caper fingered the edge of her blade again. “I don’t remember.” 

What was it Cohen said? He persuaded some of the kids to tell him about Dewitt? Jack chewed his lower lip. “Caper, did you know a little boy named Amir?”

“Some of them got away,” Caper said faintly. “Amir was Eleanor’s friend.”

Jack watched her faintly glowing green eyes. “….you said that Booker really isn’t from Rapture.”

“Not that one.”

“Did you know the Booker who _was_ from Rapture?”

“Mister D,” she said softly, “but not. But different. But not that different. Still tired. Still misses her. Still has bad dreams. Still….dead.”

Jack watched her fidget in the armored diving suit, fingering the point of her blade. It made a raspy sound against her gauntlets. “Well, let’s go. We can still help him and Elizabeth.”

 

 

 

“Miss Comstock, yes?” And the artist, Cohen, appeared at the top of the stairs. He crossed his bird-like arms, reminding Elizabeth of a ridiculous stork. But he was watching her closely. Something…strange in his gaze.

“Yes, Elizabeth Comstock.”

“How interesting,” Cohen mused, sauntering up to her as if he heard music that she couldn’t. The slight swaying dance to his steps let him whirl with a flourish, picking up his crossbow and firing off a haze of shots. 

Elizabeth held herself still. He was trying to startle her. Keep calm, keep collected. Electrified wires slammed into place all around her. 

“Now, do hold still, my sweet. Caroline, if you would!” He clopped his hands and a woman appeared, another splicer. “Relieve Miss Comstock of her responsibilities.”

The splicer acted immediately, blasting her with ice. Her feet froze fast to the stage.

“Hey!” Elizabeth protested. “What are you doing!”

“You appeared here some time ago,” he mused, watching Caroline tie up Miss Comstock. “You had Detective Dewitt with you. No one has seen you or him since New Years’ Eve 1958. And then, all of a sudden, you show up in Fort Frolic and, miraculously, Fontaine Futuristics is risen from its grave. Like the deer, bloated and heaving from the ecstasy of death.”

Elizabeth figuratively froze. _Oh shit._ Another version of herself had already been here (and not just here as in, another reality: here as in _here)_ and had run into Cohen recently and: _Oh no, he thinks I’m a different Elizabeth, too._

“Not only that,” Cohen went on, pacing in a circle around her, “but you have Fontaine’s little wolf pup with you--yes, I already know about him. I helped fund the project. But it seems you’ve _also_ been quite busy, Miss Comstock. And not very forward about your activities in my burrow.” Cohen reached out, gently caressing the smooth line of her jaw. “Such a perfect shape, worth a painting or two. You could have been wonderful. You could have stayed here with me!” He paced faster, nervously gesturing with his hands as he spoke. “I test all my disciples and you passed yours with flying colors and yet…there was still something I missed.” He grabbed her at the throat and he felt her go very still, wary. “And yet…your eyes are different now. Not so dark, little Songbird. Perhaps you’re an impostor and I should make you part of my great collaboration?” He let her go, whirling away and gesturing to his splicers in the wings. One of them brought out a rolling tray.

“When did you begin feeding him information about the Little Sisters?”

“I didn’t.” Because she hadn’t. But how had an Elizabeth and another Booker been here together and yet she’d never _seen_ them together. 

“Oh now, you know how I dislike these games, Miss Songbird. We shall have to make you _sing.”_

A splicer shot her with some kind of electric gel. Her whole body went numb, her teeth buzzed in her mouth. It soaked into her clothes, eating away at the fabric. 

“When did you begin feeding information to him about my business pursuits?”

“I _didn’t!_ My interest was in the girl, not Dewitt!” She heard herself say. 

A ghostly shadow lingered over Cohen’s shoulder, facing away from her but she knew the built of his shoulder anywhere. A shade of Booker lingered there.

“And you needed muscle to get it done? Who was she to you, Songbird?”

_(“What was I to you?”_ The shade of Booker didn't glance up, just looked at his guitar springs.) 

“I was trying to find her for someone,” she wheezed. Her whole body was numb and fuzzy, still tingling and burning. “They hired me,” she spat, taking a page from Booker. 

“Private investigator? You?” Cohen chuckled, suddenly looking thoughtful. “I’ve been had. Seduced by the voice of an independent. Is this what I come to? You tried to _trick_ me? Do I _dare_ ask what you’ve done with Dewitt?”

“You don’t need to worry about Dewitt—“ Elizabeth started.

“No one does,” Cohen cut her off. “I don’t give a _shit_ about Dewitt. But you know who does, Miss Comstock? Andrew Ryan. In fact, he sent a pack of his splicers to ransack the detective’s office. They stole everything. Now that _can’t_ be coincidence, my sweet.”

And just like that, the image flooded into her. She put her slender hand on the door of Dewitt’s office, took a deep breath _(the last one, finally)_ and stepped through. 

This other Elizabeth stepped through tear after tear after tear, shredding possibilities the closer she got to exterminating Comstock. It sent a raw chill through her.

This other Elizabeth seemed….maybe….a little bit crazy? Why go out of her way to find a Comstock? Why _hunt_ him like that—

_….I wonder if she drowned her Booker? And then she was all alone with…with everything._

It was easy to see where someone would go crazy after everything they’d been through. She hadn’t been able to kill Booker.

 _I couldn’t. No, I wouldn’t. I refused._

He’d been kneeling there in the calm, cool water and she felt everything come together. It was him. He and Comstock were the same. One accepted a baptism and became Comstock. The other refused and struggled to find a place in the world all alone. 

_Smother him in his crib._

No. No. Booker had just been angry. It wasn’t necessarily the answer. He _wasn’t_ Comstock. He was Booker. There was a difference. Elizabeth stared into those somber green eyes, lighting up with understanding. He went numb. She saw his eyes glaze over as he accepted _fault_ and _blame_ and no, no—

“This isn’t fair,” she said softly. “The endgame was to get me here. And now you…no. Comstock is dead. We _just_ killed him! You are _not_ Comstock—“

“Elizabeth, it’s for the best—“

“For who!” She demanded, grabbing helplessly into his shirt, staring down into his face. “For you?! You’ll be dead! I have lost _everything—_ not you too. After all this. Not you too. No, no, I can’t—“

“Elizabeth….the Luteces wanted to get you here. They must have known—“

“It’s _their_ stupid fault that this happened in the _first_ place! They gave Comstock the tools he needed to find you! They conned you—how do you know they didn’t arrange Annabelle’s death! How did they know to approach you after I was born—“

Booker’s hands closed around hers. “I don’t want you to suffer because of me being a bad person. You—“

“No…you’re my…that means that _you’re_ my…I can’t. No. I didn’t fight that bird just for…I…no.” Her brow furrowed, jaw turning hard and stubborn. “I won’t. I’m the one that’s supposed to be able to change this stuff. You are not Comstock. You’re not the same as him.” She wiped her eyes furiously. “You came to _save_ me.”

“Elizabeth….”

“I’m serious,” she said, almost sternly. “No. I can’t. You are the redemption for Booker Dewitt. And you’re…” Her tone faltered a little, glancing away and hiking her shoulders up around her ears, “and you’re my….only friend.” Her hands were gripped tight into his shoulders.

“Are you sure about this, Elizabeth?”

She tried to affirm but her voice came out a cracked whisper. Of all the chaos she’d been subjected too—now that she understood her power…it was time to take some command of her life. It was scary and her heart was beating like a bird’s—so fast she felt dizzy.

Booker had stood up, dripping in the water and embraced her. 

 

 

Like the electric gel did when they hit her with it again.

“I won’t give you to Ryan, oh no. Your power is very interesting. So don’t worry. But, you must tell me—I can be merciful. When did you begin feeding information to Dewitt?”

Elizabeth gasped, weak in the knees. Her hands were tied behind her. The gel reached her skin, throwing her spine into a curve as her whole body shuddered.

_It’s okay. Pain is there to tell you the body is taking damage. It’s okay. Accept and move passed it._

Elizabeth struggled to breath, blinking hard to get her vision back. “If you won’t listen to logic then I can’t help you! I told you why I came here! I never passed information to Dewitt until I met him! Maybe your network is made up of crazed splicers? You ever think of that—“

They hit her again.

 

 

Jack didn’t find Booker where he left him. The man had likely stalked off alone. So he hurried off to the brothel and found the doors unlocked. Caper grabbed his arm. “I smell blood,” she said softly.

Jack studied her thin face and then kicked the door in, releasing a wave of insects—formed by genetic memory sampling and actual bits of blood and flesh. His arms were covered in dotting scars, not unlike some of the gnashes and beak-stabs that decorated Booker’s hands. _Weird._

A sloppy drunk went flying over the bar counter. He hit the stage and rolled—

As the world faded around him and a woman smoked around a pole, sliding to her microphone and beckoning. 

_(“Well, well, if it isn’t Andrew Ryan.”)_

Booker dashed through the ghost and slammed the other man down, grabbing a hammer from the stage and hitting and hitting and hitting until blood was splattering up at him. The older man rubbed his face with his sleeve and seemed to notice him.

“Jack,” said Booker, standing up. 

“Booker,” Jack greeted and then it fell out of him in a rush: “I’m sorry about earlier.”

Booker shook his head. “You’ve had a rough time, buddy.”

“We all have,” Jack answered. He held out his grubby palm.

Booker smiled in that crooked way he did and took it, shaking hands with him and gently urging the younger man onto the stage. 

“So this was your mark?” Jack said, nodding to Hernandez’s freshly pulped face. “Did you see the ghost?”

“Just shimmers and whispers,” Booker said, rubbing his left knuckles and not quite meeting his eyes. 

Somehow, Jack found himself walking forward. Something moving him forward, pushing through the hallway. 

_(“I didn’t know! I didn’t know Fontaine had anything to do with it! No—no, please, Andrew—I—no!”_

Jack stopped cold, listening to the woman die as Ryan brutalized her. No doubt he beat her to death. He could hear the heavy sound of something metal meeting with flesh. When it finally stopped and the hallway washed back into color, Jack had to touch the wall to steady himself.

“Did you hear that?” Jack muttered, looking sidelong at Booker.

The detective looked ashy pale. He nodded, eyes going to the floor. Comstock’s murder of Lady Comstock had surfaced from the depths of those memories. “Yeah.”

The woman’s room was worse. It reeked of death and a half-rotted corpse was still and relaxed on a moldy bed. Jack’s eyes burned. He could feel another headache, just like before. It slammed into him like a stench, crackling into his brain and collapsing his knees. Booker was to him in a heartbeat, kneeling down beside him.

Caper stood still at the door, observing them. “They’re getting worse.”

“Why?” Jack rasped, screwing his eyes shut and bowing his head forward. He felt Booker touch his shoulder. It was odd, rather comforting, like…fatherly. Foreign.

_Never experienced before. What does it mean?_

“The darkness doesn’t bother you much,” Caper said, eyes open and burning out at him. “You were here for a long time.”

_(Break that sweet puppy’s neck.)_

And then the sound system boomed: _“—THAT LITTLE BITCH!”_

All three looked up. Caper tapped the metal collar of her suit. “Big Sister Elizabeth—she’s falling, she’s running and she’s _tearing—“_

“Shit.” Booker staggered up, helping Jack steady on his feet. “We gotta go. C’mon, buddy.”

Caper went out the door ahead of them. She moved like a horrifying whirlwind. The walls, splattered with guts and bone, would likely never completely dry down here. Everywhere smelled like death. 

Jack’s head was swimming with it, dazed and smelling copper in his nose. He staggered against Booker and righted himself, trying to clear his vision. He heard gunfire and screams and then he hit the ground. All the colors and lights burned together as Booker stepped in front of him, grappling with a splicer. He tore out a bulging throat, beads from a necklace burst like buckshot around Booker’s boots. Yet, Jack couldn’t seem to move his legs. He felt fuzzy, confused, strangely disconnected from his own body. 

Booker thrust a knife into someone’s face before Caper appeared to stab the splicer in the back. The detective whirled back around and watched Jack’s whole body go stiff. “Oh shit.” Booker knelt by the kid, unwinding a kerchief to stuff between his teeth as his body seized. “Caper, can you protect Jack?”

She nodded anxiously. Booker didn’t go far—she still looked so small—but he readied their weapons and took out his rifle.

Behind them, the double doors suddenly opened. Booker turned himself to the side, just in time to see another metal suit. It resembled Caper’s and, like Caper, it moved fast. Booker pivoted, slamming the heel of his palm into a slender, strong arm. The bayonet cut the air next to his cheek—and then Caper slammed into the other Big Sister suit. 

The other Sister bounded up the walls and around them. Caper leapt back and Booker shot forward, grappling with the other Big Sister. This one was taller than Caper. The detective cuffed her helm, grabbed her shoulders to try and throw her—she spidered around him, jumped on his back and yanked on his hair. It bared his throat and she jabbed in with her bayonet. 

Booker felt a burn like ice, hot blood on his throat and collar—

Caper jumped off a staircase railing, clobbering the other Big Sister. She whirled around, grabbing Caper, slamming her into the floor. Caper was smaller, still so small, and it took nothing for the other Sister to latch into her. Caper’s skull hit the stair railing once, twice, three times—

Booker fired his rifle. The sniper round hit the unknown Big Sister like a train. She flew back into the wall and was still, clutching her belly. Booker sagged to his knees, holding his throat. The bayonet had sheared right under his chin, barely missing his esophagus somehow. That was lucky, even for him. Caper groaned a little next to the staircase railing. Jack stirred, pushing himself up and spitting out the rag of cloth. 

The Big Sister still wasn’t moving. Jack wheezed a little. “I’m sorry,” he managed. “I don’t know what—Jesus Christ…I—shit—Booker? Are you okay? Booker?” He staggered to the elder man, checking his throat and relieved to find it not deep. 

The older soldier swallowed and pointed. “Check on Caper. Be careful of the other Sister suit.”

Jack managed to totter over, sinking down next to Caper. “Kid? Hey? Kiddo? Caper? You okay? Hey?” He pressed the collar and the helm went down. 

“I’m okay,” Caper murmured. “M’okay. You rest. You have to rest.” She grabbed into the staircase railing to pull herself up and before Jack could stop her, she was approaching the other Big Sister. Caper pressed into her collar and her helm came down.

She was, indeed, young. Maybe fourteen or so. She had vibrant blond hair and big blue eyes.

“Sally,” Booker heard himself murmur. 

The Big Sister was still alive but her eyes were clouded. At her name, she stirred and tried to shake herself. 

“Sally,” Booker said again. “Sally, it’s me. It’s Booker.”

Sally stared at him for a long moment. She shook her head. “Mister D is dead. He died. And then he died again. Just like me.”

“Sally, do you remember where Bo—where my office is?”

Sally shook herself. “Mister D is dead. When I came back, he weren’t the same anymore. He tried to pull me out and then he died again. And _again._ And _again._ And then the Songbird left me to rot."

“Where is Mister D’s office?” Caper said quietly, staring at the other former Little Sister. 

“I can’t, I can’t,” Sally said, body seizing up and embracing herself tightly. 

“Sally, please,” Jack murmured. “We want to help you. Did Cohen trap you here?”

Sally nodded. 

At the end of the hall, a Big Daddy wandered into view. No one saw little glowing eyes though. No Little Sister. So just a wandering Big Daddy?

“Be careful, Mister D. That’s Delta,” Caper murmured, spiriting up to his side like a blood-smeared ghost. 

“Rapture’s boogeyman,” Booker grumbled. He glanced back at Jack, who started to get up.

Unlike many of the other Big Daddies, he had one lens in his mask. It was glowing yellow until he turned their way. 

Booker went still, watching the thing. Bigger than some of the other Daddy suits, but definitely an older suit. It had seaweed and rust on it. His joints scraped and creaked. 

Caper took a few steps forward. “You should help Jack away. Go find Elizabeth. I can distract him.”

“No, I won’t leave anyone behind again,” Booker said darkly. 

She looked up at him somberly and then nodded, pressing into her metal collar to make the visor and helm rise up and protect her face. 

Booker dropped all their gear except the sniper rifle, standing with Caper in front of Jack. 

Delta rumbled. His suit computer scanned each person he saw. A Big Sister (ally Big Sister armor, unfamiliar host, possibly stolen), an older man (possible hostile) and the boy that Sinclair had shown him (hostile but lead back to Persephone if possible), and a second Big Sister suit (unfamiliar host, possibly stolen). No sign of the girl though. The other one. 

Not the right one.

Delta turned away. Caper hesitated before glancing up uncertainly at Booker. He touched her shoulder and turned around. “Jack, can you walk?”

The young man nodded, touching the walls.

Booker went to Sally—because the more he saw her blue eyes, the more he seemed to remember knowing her. Quiet and thoughtful and observant, stolen by Cohen because—

Because….? Because Elizabeth wanted to find her. Not his Elizabeth, whatever Elizabeth had been here before them and run into Cohen. He remembered it. Sort of.

Leaning over and lighting a cigarette for the beautiful young woman who sauntered into his office and asked him about Sally—she’d been eleven or so when he lost her at Sir Prize. Something had been weird about that Elizabeth but that Comstock had never seen her as an adult. 

Right? Remember? Comstock’s struggle for Anna had severed her head instead of her pinkie. Leaving that poor Booker with his daughter’s headless corpse.

Booker helped Sally stand and checked her armor. It was heavily dented but the sniper round hadn’t pierced. She finally seemed to look up at him, studying his face. Sally looked lost, confused, a bit sick. 

“Sally,” Booker said softly. “I know you remember Detective Dewitt. I want to help you. Can you lead us to the office?”

“Amir saw you die,” Sally said softly.

“I know, Sally. The whole situation is really weird.”

“Sally,” Jack said quietly, “let me help you.” He offered a hand to her.

She looked at his tattoos for a long moment and then took his palm. Caper watched them both light up like fairy lights.

Booker drug his hand over his blood-smeared face. “Okay, let’s get to the office and then we find Elizabeth.”


	11. Our Alternate Selves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music= Believer by Imagine Dragons: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IhP3J0j9JmY&list=PLQuOKHNudkmd8XwtZosj0WXzYWpuHjTxz&index=32  
> \---------------------------------------------
> 
> Sinclair hesitated for an audible ten seconds or so. “Let me give him a charge first, chief. So he won’t attack. Afterwards, there are three rivets that hold the helm to the suit. Take those out and the helm will lift off. Just be careful. Poor Delta here hasn’t been exposed to the outside much, as it were.”
> 
> Jack hefted his wrench and adjusted the head. “Let’s open him up.” 
> 
> \--------------------------------

A tear appeared under her. It was the floor, or where the floor was in this universe. In the tear, the floor didn’t exist. 

She didn’t hesitate—it was either fall through the floor or get shocked to death. Elizabeth’s arms, back, most of her torso were covered in raw, seeping burns from the electric gel. Her clothing was fraying apart. She opened the tear.

She plummeted like a stone, hard and fast, along with Caroline—the splicer who’d frozen her feet to the stage. They both heard Cohen shriek and squawk and then Elizabeth let go of the tear, muffling him. She and the splicer fell for a solid ten seconds before hitting water. The chunk of ice that Elizabeth was still stuck in hit the water first and she ragdolled herself so that her bones wouldn’t snap apart on impact. The ice buoyed her, taking her incoming force and distributing it to the water instead of her knees. The splicer screamed something and blasted at the water.

Elizabeth used Return to Sender to shield herself and then struck back with Gravity Well. The heavy, dense ball hit Caroline’s stupid mangled face—and then ripped it inside out. Elizabeth looked away from the blood. She managed to break the ice on her feet and flailed in the water, striking out until she found a steaming hot pipe. So that’s why the water was lukewarm. This was some sort of cooling tank, probably for water pumps and air pressure regulation, given the cathedral ceilings of Fort Frolic. 

Through a maintenance door, picking four locks into a main office, then the manager’s office and then someone else’s fancy office. She shoved a dusty plate with some old sandwich stuck to it off a large desk and then took a deep breath before summoning two patrolling bots from Minerva’s Den. She simply kept them in the large office with her as she searched for any supplies. A woman dressed in a utility jumpsuit was jammed underneath a heat grate. A gunshot had stopped her and rats had done the rest. It would have to do.

Elizabeth barricaded herself in the office and peeled off her destroyed clothes. While she tended to her wounds and burns, she thought and thought and thought.

If she could summon bots from Minerva’s Den (presumably) then that must be the location of Rapture’s main computer systems. The bots couldn’t travel through water and some of the buildings were flooded. So it had to get the signal somehow (unless Eve or Adam had somehow been worked into the very computer system, like the bots and their genetic whitelist system) and then relay it back to her nearest security hub. It would then automatically activate any spare bots and send one to her location. Fascinating. So there must be a collection of records or Eve samples or something that perhaps they collected from the Gatherer’s Gardens, so that Rapture’s central computer could somehow get the signal and hone in on the user’s location as a genetic tracker. It would make sense. Of the half a dozen Big Daddies they had taken down, five had used the Security Command plasmid. If Ryan and Lamb were each controlling swaths of them using pheromones, then it would make sense for the Big Daddies to have it. Now, she and Jack both had it. Booker had passed. He liked his crows. 

Though she never knew why. He favored that Plasm—er, Vigor. He liked that one. Sort of like Jack and his bees, she supposed. 

Elizabeth frowned, glancing up at the ceiling. “Gotta get back up there.” She’d tended to her hurts as best she could. The Eve helped her get what supplies she could via tears but there was no time to fully patch up. The utility jumpsuit didn’t stick to the bandaging, at least. “Sorry, ma’am,” she muttered to the corpse and put her boots back on. They were still mostly intact. “Ugh, dammit, everything hurts.”

Elizabeth dug up a couple handguns, checked and loaded them and then headed out. The bots buzzed ahead of her. 

What the hell had happened in this reality? Not just the mess of Rapture but this other Elizabeth, attempting to end an entire possibility? That was inherently impossible. There are countless doors. And there’s always an opposite. This other Elizabeth had arrived when Rapture was alive, she had been a singer—getting herself into Cohen’s circle and gathering information. _Hunting_ for Booker—no, not Booker. Comstock. It had to be. Comstock had the white hair. Just so she could….lure him into the old Fontaine building and get him killed? He wasn’t even from this reality. The Luteces (of _fucking_ course) had found him one where Elizabeth didn’t exist. But another Booker did. 

So this other Elizabeth might be the reason—she went crazy and thought she could destroy a possibility by going to different realities and murdering Comstock. Most of them were in other Columbias, some were in cities on the ground—New York, Boston, London even, once. And each time, she hunted him down and somehow, led him to his death. Each time. A Comstock on the run was, perhaps, too tempting for Other Elizabeth. She followed, probably crossing several doors with each other. Pulling different realities together, the more she attempted to destroy Comstock completely. 

So, it was entirely possible that they might actually run into the Other Elizabeth. If she was still alive. It was hard to tell—she hadn’t _seen_ that Elizabeth in a while. But what had Cohen said? Fontaine Futuristics was risen from the bottom of the sea bed. Apparently, Andrew Ryan had sunk it as a prison for Fontaine or Atlas or whoever else he didn’t like. 

She snorted. Like Persephone wasn’t enough? It was too full? “Probably,” she muttered and sighed to herself. 

Though, for all Elizabeth’s smarts, subaquatic sewer exploration was not on her list of expertise. But, she _had_ studied blueprints before. Architects were a logical sort. So long as she followed power sources, she’d find something eventually. The smell was definitely of rot and dead. She passed several corpses in the dark tunnels. She looked passed them, focusing only on a pinprick of light that the buzzing bots made. Elizabeth walked and climbed after their comforting hum and beeps, ignoring all the brutalized dead as best she could. Her heart was pounding in this dark, enclosed space. Like an eye or a horrible mouth. A train car was smashed to pieces as the tunnel began to widen. She had to wedge herself inside to get through. The bots had to shoot some sheets of scrap metal and garbage to get over it. She staggered out and froze.

About six people stood in front of her, all of them with guns. 

Goddammit. Next time she had the bright idea to go visit other versions of Columbia, she should really just pack it in for a nice vacation. Booker would like that.

 

 

The man himself would be inclined to agree, staggering into the door. He ignored seeing his own name for a moment, helping Jack inside. Caper was ahead of them with Sally, the younger girl watched Sally closely. 

Booker didn’t, couldn’t, for a moment as he suddenly really looked around an office that was creepily like his own in New York. It had definitely been worked over, and he can’t say he’d blame Andrew Ryan for that. That was just good sense. 

Jack sunk down on a small cot. “Anything look familiar?”

Booker shifted a little, wiping dried blood from his forehead. “I don’t know. I guess. In a strange sort of way.” He poked around, peering into the back room that the Detective had used as a bedroom. And where Comstock had hidden, to sob out his guilt and grief that he’d killed his baby girl in another timeline because he was too fucking impatient—

_(“Something doesn’t sit right about you. Not knowing about the Little Sisters.”)_

Not to mention, this other Elizabeth did seem a bit more…well, _sexual_ than he was accustomed to. She was beautiful, yes—and shapely. A woman that anyone wouldn’t mind showing off—but she was hiding something, that was obvious. The Detective might have been more suspicious, but Comstock followed her (guarded sexual attraction to her in silent tow). After all, it was not as though he’d ever seen her as an adult.

Booker frowned. It was hard getting used to the idea of Elizabeth as his daughter—even after all this time. Apparently, he’d known for years, of course—but thought she was dead. Going through the portal had really scrambled his mind. He wondered for a moment, what would have happened if he’d gone through the portal that night in the alley….

Anyway, she was stubborn and lovely and young and bright and vibrant—everything a man would want from his child. And certainly, it had occurred to him that she was pretty when she woke him up on the beach—but he’d been a bit more concerned about them dying to really give it much thought (also that she was _half_ his age and he was a lot of things, but he wasn't a creep). Of course, she tried to be strong. She tried not to complain but sometimes she couldn’t help it. She’d been protected, caged in her tower. The violence, the reality of real bloodshed killed all the romanticism she’d had about revolution. Now they were constantly running, moving, hiding and killing. He tried to keep her back from it, tried to spare her—but it was impossible—especially once they’d hit Finkton. 

He kept watch one sparkling cold night, hiding in a small maintenance tunnel that redirected waterflow to residential areas of Columbia. Booker had barricaded the door and built a fire in a small hearth. Elizabeth was curled up small and tight on a lumpy cot. She was covered in soot and blood. Her left boot had been mostly burned away, her hands were scarred from Shock Jockey crystals and she was staring into the fire. Her eyes were empty and lost. Like his own, one horrible day on the battlefield. She pulled her knees up to her chin. 

This whole city, ready to tear itself apart because of this slender, teenage girl. She looked so small. So small and scared. Yes, she was bright and fiery and she was smart and she was learning to defend herself but…but she just looked so small…

At the time, Booker passed it off as misplaced affection towards his own dead child but when she dozed off, he ended up sitting beside her. Booker draped his overcoat onto her shoulders. A telltale shake went through her—and then her shoulders hitched. 

“Hey…” Booker managed and gently touched her shoulder. He wasn’t sure why he put his arm around her, urged her in to rest against his chest. But he did. She burst into muffled sobs, trying to stop it but it flooded up from her. Her body racked with it. And these fucks wanted to take her away and do more terrible things to her? Fuck these guys. Fuck this entire city. Booker put his left hand into her hair unconsciously. Let them fucking try to take her away again.

_(Again?)_

A whistling shriek blasted from under the floor somewhere.

“Elijah! Get back! Get back right now—“

“Bea!” 

Jack was up in a heartbeat, going to the door. Booker hurried over as well. “What is it—“

Something detonated—blasting against the office door. It held but the frosted glass shattered. His own name cracked apart in shards and fell. Booker swore, grabbing Jack by the shoulder and pulling the boy behind him. Caper slammed into the door like a tornado, bashing it right off its hinges. Someone went flying by them, hitting the wall with a soul-wrenching _wham!_

“Bea!” And a young man—presumably Elijah—sprinted by them, standing in front of the other person. He planted his feet to the floor and summoned a whirling ring of fire. The boy had a surprising amount of control over the plasmid. It was, presumably, Incinerate--and yet he controlled it with far more precision than every other splicer they'd come across.

Caper flickered out in front of the young man, her bladed gauntlets shining in the dim light. “You should run! Go!” She called to the young man but he ignored her, kneeling down beside the other person.

And then the Big Daddy appeared again.

“Shit!” Jack rushed out the door. Where the hell was Elizabeth when you needed her? “Where’s his Little Sister!” Jack roared at the other guy. 

“There isn’t one!” Elijah yelled back. “Not sure what set him off!”

Before Elijah could pick up his companion, she flipped herself to her feet. She sunk her hands into the air around her, drawing water to her in long, wicked ropes. Booker moved automatically as the woman went on the attack. Crows burst from around him, flooding from him in inky shadows before assuming their shrieking forms. 

Caper ran by like greased lightning, bouncing up to the Big Daddy’s helm and then around him, dodging his blood-soaked drill. “It’s Delta!” She confirmed. 

Booker could only assume that these two humans (who still seemed pretty normal) had somehow accidentally pissed off Subject Delta— _Jon Einarson_ —Rapture’s boogeyman. 

The woman was dressed raggedly but in many layers for utility and warmth. Her arms were wrapped in rags and two shirts, she wore a helm with a flashlight rigged up to it. She had various knives and small guns and a set of heavy duty goggles that obscured most of her face. The young man with her, meanwhile, dodged back with a rifle—they had clearly seen combat together. The woman was fast and powerful with that water—it looked an awful lot like the Undertow Vigor, but given that Rapture was underwater, that really wouldn’t be out of place. The woman blasted around the Big Daddy, whipping in and out and around him—dodging as Booker seamlessly found himself snaking opposite of her. The woman was older than the boy, perhaps his mother? She dashed by Delta, whirling around him, slamming in three times with her knives—before Delta bestowed a stinging _whap!_ that sent her skidding across the tile. The fearsome Big Daddy grabbed for the boy. Eli dodged back, lean and fast, built for horse-ranching (though Booker wasn't sure why that was his first thought). The boy reminded him of someone, just a strange sense of....misplaced familiarity. Though he couldn't think of who, as he watched Eli's big green eyes narrow into hollow points and then held his ground as he clenched his palms into fists and pulled inward. The air around him _pulsed_ , like the Bucking Bronco Vigor (Cyclone Trap, here, sort of). It blasted Delta into the air. Eli followed up with Gravity Well, using it to hook _into_ Delta and _slam_ him into the marble floor. An unarmored human would have had all his or her bones broken from the collar down. Booker felt an odd twinge of approval. But Delta shook it off, building himself up with a groan, a growl, a _roar--_ Delta suddenly bolted, like the snap of a whip, he dashed across the marble. Eli planted his feet and held his ground. But Booker couldn't help it, he saw Elijah but his mind screamed _(Elizabeth!)_ and he found himself moving, running. Sprinting to intercept, and slamming into Delta from the side. Booker held the trigger to his skyhook and jammed it into Delta’s collar. The boy did a slight double-take at the brutal grappling hook before Delta bellowed, shooting a turret. It socked Elijah in the gut, knocking him off his feet but before the ball could prop itself up and start firing—Jack shot it with his override darts.

Elijah leapt up and seemed to _reach_. The green flutter was one Booker would normally associate with the Possession Vigor but he hadn’t seen that one here—they had Telekinesis and Hypnotize. They had—

But Delta froze. He roared and then settled down, still and silent. 

“Now, now hold on here, friends! Just wait a minute, now!”

Booker stopped, so did the young man. Glancing at him, Booker saw that he appeared to be about Elizabeth’s age, with unruly dark hair and hazel-green eyes. The young man was watching the Big Daddy carefully. “Who are you?” Booker demanded to the voice that filtered out of Delta’s suit, as he reloaded his shotgun. 

The Big Daddy emitted a blast of static. “Now look, friends. Subject Delta here is just along for the ride. I can set off a pheromone charge that’ll direct him not to attack—“

“And presumably to do the opposite,” Jack snapped.

“Now, I can’t blame you for your anger, son. If I were in your place, I’d be hellbent on getting out of this town too. I’m helping Delta from lower Rapture. My name is Sinclair. You might have seen my old store here in Fort Frolic, Sinclair Spirits? You see, Cohen has jammed all transmissions coming into Fort Frolic—except this one because it transmits to Persephone, which I daresay you’ve heard of by now? I’m not sure what got into Delta—he shouldn’t have attacked you—”

Whatever plasmid Elijah used, it wore off—and the Big Daddy came back swinging. Booker tasted metal and blood in his mouth, the rivet gun grimy with oil and grit. And then a stab—

“Booker!” Jack was yelling somewhere off to his right. 

Caper shrieked, something howling and wild ripping out of her. The girl smashed herself into Delta, stabbing in at his collar, trying to get to his throat—locked away in the cold metal. The Daddy swung, whirling, blasted her point-black with a frag grenade. Caper hit a support pillar, then the floor. Sally appeared in the doorway of the office. Something shaking and terrible crossed her dark eyes and she disengaged a weapon from her gauntlet. It was a laser cell of some kind. Elizabeth and Jack had found one on a Big Daddy that had apparently ventured over from Minerva’s Den. She blasted Delta.

 _("No! Stop! Please! Sally! Please!")_

Eli jerked suddenly, hand going to his temple. He swayed.

 _("He's my father! Please don't let them kill him! I'm begging you!")_ A pair of startling blue eyes _pulsed_ through Eli's mind.

Caper pushed herself up from some chunks of concrete and debris. Her eyes glowed faintly. She did not attack but circled Delta. Sally paused, the bright white light fading softly. Delta staggered, armor plating on his chest and shoulder were melted together. He groaned, gasping a labored breath.

Sally's haunted blue eyes narrowed, a feral snarl twisting her features. She raised her fist and grabbed the trigger again but Eli appeared in front of her, pushing her gauntlet. "Sally," he said, urgently looking into her face. 

Sally's seething anger flooded up into her eyes. "I _hate_ him. _All_ of them."

Then Bea staggered up and threw her hands out. Water washed around them in a wave, wrapping Delta up in a bubble. It ripped him away from Booker, the drill making a horrible wet sound when it detached from his blood-soaked side. Without the drill holding him up, Booker collapsed to his knees. Caper and Jack were to him in a heartbeat. 

“Booker?” Jack said, easing the older man onto his back and pulling his jacket aside. The detective’s green eyes were dark and cloudy. He was in immense pain, breathing hard and fast, eyes unfocused. 

Caper grabbed onto Booker’s arm, frantic and fretting. “Mister D? Mister D, are you okay?” She stabbed herself with an empty Eve hypo, watching her own blood sprint glowing silver and gold into the glass chamber and then jabbed Booker in the thigh. 

The man seized, spine arching in a taut bow—not unlike Doctor Langford when Lorna had done the same. Jack grabbed onto him. “It’s all right, just hang on.”

Eli eased the laser-cell gauntlet off Sally's arm. "It's all right. You don't have to hurt anyone. No one is going to hurt you."

"Not anymore," Sally agreed softly, eyeing Delta up in his water bubble.

Before Eli could answer, the older man grunted and startled into awareness. He had dark green eyes that were somber and guarded. Eli exchanged a quick look with Bea before he turned to face the two men. The younger (perhaps around his own age, drawn and tired, bloody) looked anxious as he struggled to hold the elder. 

"Easy, sir,” Elijah said, kneeling beside them. He reached over to help hold down the older man (a very rough-looking mercenary or something, tanned brown as a nut, armed to the teeth). "Little Sisters' blood is a pretty potent healing agent. You're also the first people who haven't attacked us on sight. I'm Eli and that's Bea. Who are you guys? Why do you have two Big Sisters with you?”

“I’m Jack, this is Caper and Sally, they’re former Little Sisters—apparently these suits were stolen from other Big Sisters. This confused lump is Booker. He’s a detective. We were on a plane that crashed here. ”

Bea almost dropped Delta before planting chunks of ice crystal, tethering him in place with Old Man Winter. Her face was glowing in the pale blue light of the nearby walls of glass. It went grey when she looked at Dewitt. She dropped the goggles to the floor. “Holy shit.”

 

 

Her bots came over the top of the train car and beeped. One of the armed youth, a handsome olive-skinned young man with dark hair and eyes, shot the bots with override darts—very similar to the ones Jack had helped her make. 

Elizabeth eyed them, raising her hands. “If you’re wanting Adam, I don’t have any.”

“Who are you?” The olive-skinned boy demanded. 

“It says she’s a genetic match—except for the obvious. How is that even fucking possible?” A young lady next to the boy said, studying a small device that made a few beeps and blinks. 

Elizabeth’s eyes sharpened on the girl. “What is that?”

The boy and girl exchanged looks.

The boy stepped forward. “My genetic camera here says that you’re a match to someone else I met.”

_Oh, goddammit Other Elizabeth._

“You are Elizabeth Comstock, yes? She killed the Booker Dewitt with the white hair. My name is Amir.” 

_Amir. Eleanor’s friend._

“Yes,” Elizabeth answered carefully, watching him closely.

“You are….another _Elizabeth_ Comstock, right?” Amir said. He had dark, intense eyes and shaggy dark hair. But everything in his stance demanded no nonsense. He and other children had grown up in this terrible place. He probably wouldn’t have hesitated to kill her if he’d really wanted to.

Absently, Elizabeth touched the cage at her collar, before she remembered she’d had to put it in her pocket after her clothes had been ruined. “Yes,” she said softly. And then, “How do you know about that?”

“Eleanor Lamb was my friend until she was stolen. Detective Dewitt was my friend. He helped me. And I was there, the day he was killed. But no one believed me. They said I was crazed from the loss of my parents. But I knew. And so I hid.” He glanced at the others around him. “We remember Detective Dewitt. We were all children when we met him. We remember him. The white-haired one was different.”

“My Booker isn’t like that. He’s not like Comstock!”

Amir frowned. “Comstock?”

“That’s…that’s the white-haired Booker’s name. In realities where his hair is white—his name is Zachary Comstock.”

“So _that_ is what I saw,” Amir murmured to himself. “The flash of light that he came through. It was from another…reality?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth nodded, observing the other teenagers with him. The young dark-skinned lady with the beeping device was still closely watching her, looking a little perplexed. There were two other young ladies and two other young men. They all looked very serious.

“Thank you,” Amir said and stuck out his hand to shake hers. “You brought your Booker Dewitt with you. Is he a Detective?”

“Yes, he is. And he’s good. He’s up in Fort Frolic right now with that psychopath, Cohen. Along with our friend, Jack.”

Amir glanced at the girl beside him again. She made a small, silent gesture with the device that Elizabeth wasn’t sure how to interpret. They were clearly suspicious of her but Amir looked back. “Two of our friends are up there as well. I was planning to help get them to Andrew Ryan—so that we can disable the pheromone controls and then head into Persephone.”

“To rescue Eleanor?” Elizabeth prompted.

Amir nodded, grip tightening on his rifle. “I swore I’d take her to see the surface and I’m going to help get her out of here. Her mother, Doctor Lamb, is totally crazy, just like most of the adults here. She destroyed Eleanor. All she saw was a tool for her to use. She doesn’t even see Eleanor as a _person_. Like she only gave birth to her in order to use her.”

_Sounds familiar._

It made Elizabeth wonder, again, who Eleanor’s birth father was. “That is horrible,” she said, tone turning stony and cold as she equated Comstock to Lamb. “We will find Eleanor and if Lamb tries to stop us—we’ll take care of her too.”

“Were you a Little Sister?” Amir asked, peering at her. “Why do you want to help Eleanor?”

Elizabeth hesitated. “I….well. No. Just…doctors have….well…”

Something in Amir’s dark gaze softened. He stepped towards her. The young man was taller than her and he held up his palms to show he meant no harm. “No worries,” he said quietly. “Lots of us, most of us…we’ve been tortured and shit by doctors and scientists. I guess we didn’t have any rights because we couldn’t murder our parents. But you’ve heard of Eleanor, clearly. And you have a Security Command plasmid—which means you musta got it off a Big Daddy. So I’ll help you get into Fort Frolic and find your Booker Dewitt and….maybe we can help each other find Eleanor.”

“Yes, the Little Sisters we’ve met have told us about Eleanor. We want to help her.”

Amir examined her, eyes haunting over her dark hair and brilliant blue eyes. Whatever he was looking for, he seemed to find it (or maybe didn’t). “All right, then, Ms Comstock. This way.”

“Just Elizabeth is fine.”

The boy shuffled a little awkwardly, suddenly looking incredibly young. It was sort of charming. “Uh, I’ll try to remember, ma’am.”

It made her smile a little sadly. _Took me awhile to call you Booker. Now I see why it always bothered you. You felt you were nothing that deserved any title. Not even ‘mister’. To hear it in front of your name just made you think of your failures. You hated yourself. You still hate yourself. And I think I hate myself too._

Amir, she found out, was barely a year younger than her. He was careful and quick, nimble as a cat, swift as a shadow. He was clearly accustomed to hiding, given the ease that he navigated the metal snakes and trees of Rapture’s maintenance levels. He was also very strong, she had to note, watching him pull himself up a hot pipe and then snatching a rope to help her up. He made very little physical contact otherwise, no playful flirting, no wayward touches. Amir’s dark eyes were like the night sky, sober and glittering and focused. His shaggy, dark hair was crudely cut and pulled into a short, high tail.

“You’re pretty good at climbing,” Elizabeth heard herself say for no reason at all that she could think of. It was true—but, it’s not as though he wasn’t aware. 

“I grew up in the bowels of this place. You can’t trust any of these fucks that came to Rapture of their own free will. We were born here or brought here. _We_ had no choice. And Ryan would have sold me off to Cohen if I hadn’t run from Sullivan.” Amir frowned to himself, pausing as he pulled her up to him. “I mean, sorry—I wasn’t trying to be rude. Thank you.”

Elizabeth felt something in her want to _reach_ out, open all his doors and see what happened to this young man. His eyes were so haunted and dark…it reminded her of Booker. “It’s all right,” she said softly. “It’s…this place is terrible. I was on a plane that crashed. It’s been…there’s a lot going on.”

“Yeah,” Amir agreed and then suddenly looked awkward again. “Anyway, up here.” He pointed to a vent shaft and sprinted up the wall to grab onto it. Elizabeth followed his example. 

Amir opened a sliding panel in the dark vent some dark minutes later. “This is the grate that leads to Detective Dewitt’s office. See, he put a green submarine sticker in the Little Sister vent and under here, he put a green sticker of a bird. To let children know that this place was safe.” Amir slid through the vent and peered up into an office of some kind. He lifted the grate and pushed. Amir lifted himself out and then reached down to help her out.

Elizabeth saw the door wide open and there was—

“Booker!” He was on the ground. Oh god, he was on sitting up on the ground but there was so much blood—she sprinted through the door, skidding to her knees. 

Caper stiffened. “Elizabeth,” the child said softly.

The detective was alive, his eyes were open but he was staring right passed her. 

“Caper? When did you come back—? What happened? What’s wrong?” She touched Booker’s jaw, studying his face. He looked like he’d seen a ghost. “Booker, what’s wrong?” And then she looked too. She checked, glanced to see what might have startled him—surveying the openly hostile environment as she realized that Booker was somehow compromised. He seemed unhurt but was clearly stunned—she had to protect him.

That was when she noticed the two people standing on the other side of the Big Daddy. One was a woman, in the prime of middle-aged, perhaps nearly Booker’s age. She appeared normal; or human, anyway. Her hair was a sandy-auburn, streaked with a little grey and gathered in a messy bun. Her eyes were a piercing blue and outlined by grime and oil and dirt. Perhaps most surprising was that she looked just as stunned as Booker. The woman stared at the detective, as pale as a ghostly sheet. And in her hand—

_Undertow!_

—and up the woman’s arm, there were the flooded scars of the _Undertow_ Vigor. Each one left its mark in different ways. But Booker hadn’t used that one so much as—

_Wait, does Rapture have Undertow? It seems like it would, being underwater and all—_

“Bea? What is it?” The second person lingered at the woman’s side, edging closer and watching Booker carefully. He was tall, maybe taller than Booker. His eyes were a stormy hazel-green and he had dark, unruly hair. 

“Wait—no—you don’t understand.” She looked back at Booker but stopped short of asking him anything else. He was rubbing his eyes hard, looking unsettled, cagey in the shoulders. 

The detective took a deep breath. “Elizabeth,” he said, slow and firm. “This is…..Annabelle.” He gestured faintly to the woman.

“Bea?” the boy repeated, touching the woman’s shoulder.

Bea looked at him, then at Elizabeth, then back at the detective. “Elijah, this is….Booker Dewitt.”

Elizabeth stopped cold. “Oh my god.” 

The boy met her eyes, realizing the same thing. “Holy _shit.”_

The doors opened to her.

_Elijah Comstock or Alexander Dewitt._ Annabelle Dewitt did not die. But in these realities where Annabelle lives and also bears a living child, and Booker Dewitt deserts the battlefield at Wounded Knee, refusing to participate in the massacre, the Luteces come, they'll find themselves the awkward messangers of the Butterfly Effect. That was to say nothing of Booker and Annabelle, who were extremely unwilling. So The Luteces steal him in the dead of night, for Comstock was impatient. Thsi Comstock wasn’t bothered about the gender the rifts showed him. A child was a child. Booker gives chase. When his father arrives in front of the tear—bang, bang—two shots into the chest. His hands fall on the portal. It sheers off half of Booker’s hand and half of her baby boy’s pinkie and ring finger to the first knuckle. Annabelle arrives as it closes, her husband dying in her arms and her baby stolen. 

“You. You’re me,” the boy said, looking faintly astonished. He stepped forward and examined Elizabeth. 

“Wow, I didn’t know there was a male version of me,” she told him. “Alexander?”

“Anna?” He returned, hands clasped behind him. 

“How have I never…. _seen_ you before?” Elizabeth asked, watching him closely.

“I suppose I’m the anomaly,” Eli answered, shrugging. “When we saw the lighthouses…the other selves we saw…sometimes I was me. And then sometimes I was…different. Usually it was just the eyes or the hair color, things like that….but I was always with Bea.” He glanced at the older woman.

_Bea. Annabelle. She’s my—_

“I only ever saw me and Booker.”

_Booker. He’s my—_

They both looked at their alternate parent. But neither of them looked at Elizabeth or Eli. They were still staring at each other.

_Oh right. Alternate husband and wife._

“You preferred the Crows,” Annabelle managed quietly, looking at Booker’s arm.

“You liked them, apparently,” Booker rasped, looking more off-footed than Elizabeth had ever seen him. “I mean. At least in. My. Reality.”

“Of course,” Annabelle agreed quickly. “Right, yes. Um. It’s weird—I somehow didn’t expect…well, anyway. So you went to Columbia instead of me?”

“ _You_ went to Columbia?” Booker’s eyes went wide as dinner plates. 

“Yes, that horrible Lutece woman appeared after nineteen years,” Annabelle scowled. “Tells me Alexander has been imprisoned and was named Elijah and they can help me get to him.”

“And avenge Booker Dewitt,” Eli said, staring hard at Booker. 

Booker eyed the boy (technically his son, holy shit).

“Comstock shot him,” Eli added quietly.

“He’s _not_ Comstock,” Elizabeth cut in, bristling. _“My_ Booker is good. Thank you very much. I didn’t start by asking how _she_ is alive, you know.” 

“Maybe we should _start_ by asking how _we’re_ both here at the same time without collapsing probability!”

“Maybe _you_ should—“

“Eli!” Annabelle snapped.

“Elizabeth!” Booker said sharply, at the same time. 

Eli and Elizabeth both closed their mouths. 

Annabelle unconsciously busied her hands trying to wipe off blood and water from her ragged sleeves. “So, um—I take it you are not _this_ reality’s Booker Dewitt?”

“Yeah. I’m not this reality’s Dewitt. I come from another one where my Annabelle died—“ he lit his cigarette and took a deep breath, “—and I found Elizabeth in Columbia years later via Robert Lutece. Killed the Comstock.”

“Hey, me too,” Annabelle said, half-smiling at him. “Good work, alternate Booker.”

“Same.”

The two managed an awkward, fumbling smile, while avoiding each other’s gaze. 

“See,” Booker said casually, gesturing to Elizabeth and Eli. “I’m a jerk in every reality.”

“Mister Dewitt,” Eli said, suddenly stepping between them. The friendly openness had evaporated. “A moment, please, that I can speak with my….with her.” He put a hand on Annabelle’s shoulder and urged her to walk with him. 

“Booker?” Elizabeth whispered urgently, trying to get him to look at her. “Booker, she’s not—“

“I _know,”_ Booker growled under his breath. “I know she’s not my— _our_ Annabelle. Took me by surprise is all. She’s…” He shook his head. “It’s just strange for everyone else who _doesn’t_ see all of our alternate selves.” He delivered a pointed eyebrow-raise.

“Is it really so strange?” Rosalind Lutece said, appearing by the blue-lit windows with her hands folded. 

“To them, it would be. It should be, really,” Robert answered, nodding towards the group.

Something in Bea’s dirty face contorted in ugly anger as she whipped around. “You again. What do you want?”

“A question you all ask yourselves. Save the obvious pair.”

“Elizabeth and Eli. Anna and Alexander. Two children born of the same parents. Almost the same in every way.”

Eli pointed at them. “Like you two.”

“Of course,” Elizabeth echoed softly. “I never thought—I mean, I only saw other versions of me. Not…ever a boy.”

“And I never saw a girl,” Eli added. “Until recently, I mean but…she was different. Not like you,” Eli stumbled a little, nodding at Elizabeth. “She….looked like she fit in more, in this place, I guess.”

“But Robert was the first self I came across,” Rosalind said, tone expressionless and eyes cool, as always. 

“And she was mine,” Robert added. “Your realities were shredded as Elizabeth Comstock crossed hundreds of fields, killing every Comstock she found. Bringing the probabilities down to a Booker Dewitt who refused to massacre innocents and died the night—“

“The night you fucks showed up, kidnapped my son and then _murdered_ his father?” Annabelle’s hackles came right up, fists clenching. The water from Undertow coiled and looped restlessly around her hands as her agitation rose. 

“Not them,” Eli couldn’t seem to help but say. “Another them—but not necessarily these two.“

Annabelle scowled and turned her gaze to glare holes in the floor.

“We are them, they are us,” Rosalind said. “It is something that you cannot understand yet, but perhaps you will. The Rogue Elizabeth shredded down these possibilities where Booker Dewitt dies the night the child in question is taken or bought—“

“Bought!” Bea spit. “Is that what you’re calling it?”

“No,” Robert answered. “That is what _we_ called it.” He gestured between himself and Booker. “I’m afraid this Booker was more like the others, he butchered helpless women and children in the Wounded Knee Massacre. He did not refuse, like your Booker Dewitt did. Your reality is not the same as most others, Ms Watson. The one who typically dies, is you.”

“In one way or another,” Rosalind added.

Annabelle couldn’t seem to help it as her gaze tethered over to Booker, looking somehow…unnerved. It cut right passed his armor. She looked horrified. He couldn’t blame her. Booker’s shoulders hunched, avoiding everyone’s gaze by frowning at the floor.

“And the child is typically a girl,” Rosalind went on. “After your death, Dewitt agrees to a deal to sell Anna in order to pay his debts—“

“And give the girl a better life,” Robert cut in, looking slightly apologetic. 

Elizabeth bristled. “That _you_ two helped engineer, let’s remember. Are you sure you didn’t arrange to have my real mother _die_ too?”

Jack suddenly stepped forward. “Okay, look—I hate to interrupt this fucking Twilight Zone episode we’re doing right now but we kind of have a situation on our hands. Mainly him.” He pointed at Delta. “I kind of understand what’s going on with your weird time bullshit. But not really. Some angry other version of Elizabeth went crazy, is basically what I just heard. And everyone has done shit that they feel terrible about. Booker saved my life, he’s a good guy no matter how much he’s fucked up.” Jack glared at Elijah, like he was daring the other boy to disagree. “He’s a good guy now. He could have left me on my own in Neptune’s Bounty, but he didn’t.”

Booker started a little, looking surprised at Jack’s words.

“Also, who is this?” Jack went on, pointing at Amir.

“Amir!” Annabelle started, hopping up. And then she hesitated, looking at Booker and then back at Amir. 

Elizabeth blinked. _Of course. That’s why they were confused. Amir’s two friends were Bea and Eli, who were probably trying to find Detective Dewitt’s office as well. Their genetic camera—they must have taken a picture of Eli. And then photographed me—we would be a near-genetic match in everything but gender. Though he looks more like Booker…_

Wow, he really did, when Elizabeth took a long look at her…sort-of brother. He was rangy and lean, with Booker’s broad shoulders, dark hair and eyes. But he was less fluid in combat. Well, that made sense—presuming that Comstock had controlled Elijah too…until his mother showed up to save him and avenge his father.

_So weird. I wonder how that went._

And then her fierce alternate-mother, who was short but solid. Her arms were slender with lean muscle. She approached Amir, wiping her palms on her trousers before clasping his hand. Amir towered over her but his eyes were friendly and warm. 

_(“Amir. Amir! It’s Amir! He’s alive! Oh god, he’s alive!”)_

Elijah and Elizabeth both tensed up.

“You hear Eleanor, yes?” Rosalind gestured to Delta. “She has been trying to get you for some time. In all ruptured timelines. Now, all the outliers are drawn together. We come closer to absolve the rifts that the Rogue Elizabeth created.”

“That we helped her create,” Robert said, more quietly.

“We merely showed her the door, brother. We did not make the choices.”

Eli furrowed his eyebrows, found himself unconsciously glancing at Elizabeth. She met his gaze—which made both of them feel a little weird. They both looked back. 

Rosalind sighed, seeing their shifting. “We not unaffected by the chaos that our discovery has caused. As our contraption made Zachary Comstock sterile—we theorize that touching multiple realities can effect a person in different ways. This Other Elizabeth descended into madness after drowning her Booker Dewitt. But it was not just one reality for us. For my brother and I, it was _all_ realities. Now we have been in all times in all moments. Even now, I flip a coin, I play piano, I give Dewitt a shield, I watch him be torn apart, blood and skin smattering all over. I refuse to row. Columbia falls. New York City burns. We steal a child. We watch Annabelle Dewitt die. Comstock kills Booker Dewitt. All things. Robert can juggle. I cannot. We are not different and yet, we are not the same. The longer we are constantly in flux, the more Robert and I may begin to break down.”

"And what she calls _breaking down_ , I would prefer to say: _gaining a conscience."_ Robert folded his arms, looking unimpressed.

Annabelle rolled her eyes. “Amir,” she said, instead, looking up at the young man. “Are you all right? When I realized you and Tyla were on the other side of docking gate—“

“The Big Daddy would have killed you both if you had stayed. We got out—we know this place like fish know a reef.”

“All right, just make sure you stay alive long enough to get to Eleanor.”

“So long as there’s a Vita-Chamber nearby, not even my cold, dead body could stop me.”

“How did you get here?” Annabelle asked, giving the young man a crooked smile. 

“Through the vents, with Elizabeth. This is Detective Dewitt’s office. We came through the heat grate.”

Annabelle whirled around to the fractured shards of Dewitt’s name on the floor. “So that’s what brought all of us here, I assume?”

“You’ve been seeing flashes of the Other Elizabeth,” Eli asked, arms crossed. His gaze was hard and he kept glancing at Booker like he expected the man to attack him. 

Elizabeth had to nod. “Yes, I saw her. Booker saw Comstock and how he….”

“…..killed Detective Dewitt?” Eli finished. “Fuck. So there really is precedent. I guess my dad wasn’t such a one-off for Comstock.”

“Only for you,” Robert reminded him.

Eli scowled murderously in return. 

Jack approached Delta. Caper trailed beside him. Sally lingered. These people all knew each other. Eli, Annabelle, Booker, Elizabeth, set of redheaded twins who bickered a lot—all of them talking about other realities and shit. Amir approached, giving Jack a cautious nod. 

“You’re Amir—Eleanor’s friend, right?” Jack ventured. 

“I am—I saw Eleanor with him,” Amir answered, nodding to Delta. The Big Daddy had been freed from the chunks of crystal and water. The big thing sat silent and still. “I wonder if Lamb is still controlling him.”

“Not right now, son,” Sinclair answered from Delta’s suit. “He got a pheromone charge to settle down. Lamb instructed him to take young Elizabeth to Persephone. We got some genetic photographs. And then he saw the young man and apparently mistook one for the other, genetically. Or was, at least, a close enough match that he tried to kill his mama.”

“Is that fuckin Sinclair?” Amir spat, disgusted. “He’s not any fucking better than every other bottom feeder in Rapture. I feel worse for Delta.”

“Be that as it may,” Sinclair said, rather reasonably, “I can make him lie down if I hit him with a pheromone charge. And I imagine it will be easier to take care of Andrew Ryan with a knight in shining armor. Complete with iron horse.”

“And you will just idly watch and listen, to spy on us for Lamb?” Amir shot back.

“Or he can follow you, attempting to kill you until he gets his hands on Elizabeth. Who he will then take to Persephone and Doctor Lamb will get ahold of her. Now, I want out of Rapture, just like everyone else. But I can actually help you do it. And you’ll get your revenge at the same time.”

Amir scowled. _“You_ were the one who sold Delta to Andrew Ryan and his team of psychopaths.”

“Everyone has to get by in Rapture, son—“

“I’m not your damn son,” Amir cut him off, bristling. “And you’re a piece of shit.”

Jack watched the influx of emotions, dead and somber and heavy, in Amir. This boy had grown up here, hid and fought and survived here. In a place where children were practically a currency. There was no easy life for these kids, these folks—Amir couldn’t be much older than him. He never felt the sunshine.

 _Not like me._ Jack shook himself a little. “Amir, it’s okay—we’re gonna find Eleanor.”

The other boy glanced at him and grumbled softly to himself. “Sinclair will definitely betray us.”

“At any other time in Rapture, I would have agreed,” Sinclair rasped passed the static. “I know what kind of man I am. An opportunist. I do what I can to supply demand. That’s just business. But I want out. I’d have left years ago, if Ryan’s contracts allowed for it. But they don’t. And here we are, sport. Men and women, just trying to get out of Rapture. After all, it’s not as though your hands are clean either.”

“Fuck you,” Amir growled.

“Then don’t help Delta for my sake. Do it for his. None of this is his fault, after all. You help us out of Rapture, then we can probably find a cure for his condition. And it sounds like Eleanor doesn’t want him to die.”

Caper peered around Jack to study Amir. “She doesn’t. Eleanor doesn’t want you to die. She loved Delta. He’s her papa.”

“The closest she ever had to one, little darlin,” Sinclair agreed. “Her mama is certified insane. And if you want to get into Persephone, chief, you’ll need my help.”

Amir scowled again, crossing his muscled arms. 

“Tell me how to remove his helm,” Jack said.

Sinclair hesitated for an audible ten seconds or so. “Let me give him a charge first, chief. So he won’t attack. Afterwards, there are three rivets that hold the helm to the suit. Take those out and the helm will lift off. Just be careful. Poor Delta here hasn’t been exposed to the outside much, as it were.”

Jack hefted his wrench and adjusted the head. “Let’s open him up.”


	12. Habitual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music: Glass Fractals by ProtoU: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cuHp4mfxJDo&t=0s&list=PLQuOKHNudkmd8XwtZosj0WXzYWpuHjTxz&index=48
> 
> \-----------------------------------------------
> 
> “So I taught you to fight,” Booker mused, looking at her boot. “Huh. I guess maybe not every version of me is a jerk—your Booker was a good guy.”
> 
>  _“You’re_ a good guy, you piece of shit,” Jack told him, grumpily.
> 
> That made the detective grin crookedly at Jack. He patted over his heart. “Right here, buddy. Right here.”  
> \---------------------------------------------

The first time she saw Elijah, he was playing the violin. His hair was crisp and clean, neatly parted on one side. He idled across each string, coaxing fluid waves of sound from each one. He was broad-shouldered and handsome, lean as a whip and dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt. His tie was loosened and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The boy’s expression was stormy, difficult to read. Something frustrated him, perhaps. His bow turned sweeping and erratic—and then the world tore open—

Sounds screamed out at him, wind and _water_ hit him and a shot pierced out of the dark. A human voice yelled something in French and the boy pitched back, dropping his violin to close the…whatever it was.

The boy looked at his palms, soaked from rain. Then he seemed to remember his violin. “Ah, cripes.” He apologized, picking it up carefully by the neck. 

_What on earth was that?_

Annabelle gave up the pretense of stealth and just watched him. Who was this boy? Who was he to the people here? Why did he live in a giant fucking tower, sequestered away from other people? 

_("Give us the boy. We tell you how to get to Booker's killer.")_

An old hurt, one long scarred over. She couldn’t quite remember when she got back to their little flat that night. So empty and cold. Her husband shot in the street, baby gone. No way to make anyone believe her. Coppers showed up and questioned her. She just stared at her dead husband. _Only the good die young, don’t they._ She became aware again at the police station. And she told them exactly what had happened. They chalked her story of a strange glowing light up to delicate nerves and assumed it was a robbery. Anonymous, middle of the night, no reliable witnesses. Case closed.

She took over the firm after that, managing as best she could. Even if, the darker her flat got, the colder she felt—the more she hated herself for not being able to save either of them. Both of them. Anything. The more withdrawn she became. Soon the neighbors forgot about them and she was just another silent, bitter widow. A dime a dozen in New York City. 

But watching the boy gripe to himself as he changed his tie and pulled on a jacket, he seemed mostly harmless. He didn’t move like a killer or anything (not yet). As Annabelle wandered the strange facility, she discovered a treasure trove of disturbing things. The room with the photographs. That made all the hairs on the back of her neck stand up and her hackles followed. Whatever they had this kid locked up here for—it couldn’t be for his benefit. The sheer expense meant that he was important to _someone_. But there was no way of knowing why. Though, of course, were she a gambling gal, she’d venture from all the crazy equipment that the kid was part of some science experiment. This Zachary Comstock may not have been involved but he most certainly knew about it. So this young man could be acting, playing out a strange auto-sequence, like with mental conditioning. He could be violent. He could be dangerous.

But when Annabelle studied him from the ceiling of the library and he sat on a bench that perched before a massive circular window, all arms and long legs. Like someone trapped and longing for the outside. The loose slope of his shoulder seemed familiar…

When she initially dropped down into the library, Annabelle landed light as a feather on top of a bookshelf. The young man did a double-take at her. 

“Ah, hallo, young man—“

He grabbed the bookshelf and yanked it over.

“Ah! Ah—no-no-no!” Annabelle tumbled into the railing of the mezzanine. 

“Who are you!” The boy demanded, throwing a large volume about the Napoleonic Wars at her. 

Belle knocked it out of the air. “Stop that right now!”

He tackled her. Annabelle landed under the young man with a rough _whump_. It knocked the breath right out of her. But then the boy didn’t seem to know what to do. He had her. Now what? He suddenly became aware of her, perhaps. Leaning up on one knee, pinning her down with one uncertain, brittle hand and then suddenly pausing—looking at her strangely. His fingers spidered over her collarbones. “You’re real….”

Unsettled, the boy jerked back, scrambling off of her. “What are you doing in here—“

“I'm Annabelle Dewitt. I’m here to get you out.”

The boy wrinkled his nose. “What? How?”

“This,” Annabelle told him, pulling out the strange key with its cage and its bird.

The way his eyes lit up, focused and sharp, somber and green—

 

 

It all seemed so long ago now.

“He is not Booker Dewitt,” Elijah said softly. 

“I am very aware of that: thank you, Eli.”

“I just don’t want you to get drawn into thinking he’s the same as my…as…” he stumbled over the wording, “…same as him,” he finally settled on. “They look mostly the same but…but at the core, their paths deviated.”

“So did yours, as I recall—the vision of New York burning had you as the catalyst.”

“He _sold_ my other self. He _sold_ her.” The boy seemed insulted, _wounded_ by that. “Why did he try to save me but leave her?”

Annabelle nodded somberly. “Elizabeth seemed ready to defend him.”

“Who knows what she’s been through—“

“Shouldn’t you?”

“Well, yeah, in theory. But there will be core concepts that we will experience differently merely because I’m male and she’s female. I can look but…well, that just seems…..” Suddenly, Elijah shrugged his shoulders up around his ears. “I cannot pry so deeply without her knowledge. It seems wrong.”

“That’s because Comstock ensured you had a gentleman’s upbringing,” Belle said, smiling a little. “Horses, archery, rifles, an instrument, astronomy, mathematics, business, logic—“

“I get it,” Eli groused at her. 

“And good manners,” she said anyway. 

Elijah sighed. “Bea—I’m just not sure it’s a good idea for us to….I mean—“

“What? Only see the man who died? I can separate that this Dewitt made other choices. Bad ones. Maybe he atoned for them already. If they’ve been through the same shit that we’ve been through…then maybe he’s paid for his crimes. Maybe Comstock’s outweigh—“

“We have to be careful about comparing one reality to another. Comstock can be anywhere. The Luteces are his personal ferrymen. They like enabling crazy people in making poor decisions, apparently.”

“Elijah,” Annabelle said sharply. But then gently touched his jaw—he looked so much like Booker when he was young—and searched his face. “Comstock is dead. Our Comstock is dead. The others should be judged by their own merits.”

“I don’t trust him—“

“You _shouldn’t_ trust him. We just met him. But if we want to save Eleanor and get these people out of Rapture then it makes more sense for all of us to travel together. Whatever happened here, you and Elizabeth must be the keys. I think finding Eleanor is the answer. Their Little Sisters said the same types of things.”

“He killed all those people at Wounded Knee. He was the monster that Slate wanted so badly.”

_(“Dewitt! Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time. You must be Missus Dewitt! Wish WhatsHisName had half your guts! I suspect that’s why you appear to be traveling alone tonight, Ms Dewitt? Where is the Cavalry Sergeant Dewitt? Maybe you aren’t as big a coward as your redskin-lovin husband—“)_

Annabelle frowned to herself and looked across the wide room to where Booker and Elizabeth were quietly speaking about similar topics, likely. “And it tore him apart. Just like he’d thought it would.” 

The initial horrified revulsion had passed. Now that she understood what decisions he’d made, all she felt was pity for the man because he had clearly suffered the consequences. Likely the same ones her own Booker had agonized about with his forehead in his hand as he prickled up at their kitchen table. Vulnerable and raw, pride snuffed out, truly believing he’d done the right thing but ready in case she decided she wouldn’t stand behind a _traitor—_

Annabelle shook herself. The present Booker was sitting at a small table in the back room while Elizabeth fussed at his bandages and checked the scarring on his muscled side. The girl appeared to wrinkle her nose at him and poked him in the shoulder. Booker glanced up, passed her, saw Annabelle peering— 

She shrugged, looking away quickly. “Of course, I killed a bunch of people too.”

_(“Now, hey, see here, Slate! That’s no way to talk to Ms Dewitt! You’ll mind your tongue—“)_

“Goddammit, that’s not the same—fuck, fine. Fine. As you say. However, if he attempts anything towards you—“ Elijah glared at his boots, breathing careful and terse between his teeth to keep back that balloon of fear and rage that was always in his stomach these days. The dreams had been constant. Flashes of another self somewhere. All he saw was one single lighthouse. No field of them. Just one. One single shining lighthouse, piercing through the dark. There in a moment, gone in a flash. They’d been there before, once—just in flashes in the sea of Doors. Bea had been captured in awe by it when they saw it laid out on the sea floor. That moment was the Tear he needed to return to. 

_Rapture_

Eli had learned that a dream was a dream. But Eli had very few real dreams anymore. Usually, they were a jumbled blend of memories from others. But his own dreams rarely repeated. It was the only way, sometimes, for him to judge whether or not things were…..real. 

“Elijah, hey, look at me?” She gently touched the scruff of beard he was getting. It was still difficult for him to come to terms with how he felt sometimes. He was amped up, ready to keep fighting, sizing up his alternate father in case he had to step in and kill him (like Annabelle had stepped in and gutted Comstock, all the red). “Why don’t you try talking to Elizabeth? If you’re worried, she probably is too, right? Probably for similar reasons.”

Eli scowled but agreed. “All right. All right. I’ll try and talk to her.”

“You ready!” Amir called, outside the room in the hallway. They’d pirated some scaffolding lights for their own use. 

“Yep yeah,” Jack replied, shuffling through his trousers and reassuring himself that his knife was present before he nodded again. “Booker, if you’re up for it? We’re gonna open up Ser Jon here.”

The detective and Elizabeth lumbered out of the office. Her touch was still protective, eyeing Delta carefully. 

Amir was quick to take point. Fort Frolic had changed a lot of things. Jack adapted like water, if nothing else. He showed no hesitation, almost robotic. Set aside immediate plans for securing escape, fuck Andrew Ryan—icing on the cake that the pheromone controls were in Ryan’s holdout or whatever. The pain of the Little Sisters, of all the children who grew up here, for Eleanor and Elizabeth and Booker and Eli and Annabelle and Caper and Sally. And now Amir. Andrew Ryan connected everyone’s dots, didn’t he? A lot of birds and one shit-covered stone. All roads lead to Rome.

_Except mine._

Jack’s grip tightened on the wrench and he yanked it towards him. The mighty bolt hesitated on grime and grit, reluctant to part—and then it screeched loose. The second bolt came apart at the touch of the wrench head, it was cracked clean down. The third bolt had been melted into the shoulder. Jack heated it with Incinerate to get it loose. 

Amir stepped back then, leveling his rifle at Delta. “I will cover you. If this is a trick, I will shoot him in the face.”

Sinclair huffed, sounding annoyed. “Sure thing, chief. I got you. Stay settled down, Delta. You protect them all to bring them back to Persephone, do you hear me?” The suit beeped. “And there’s the command charge: that blinking light there, sport. When the slot is empty, you’ll know it’s been distributed. Now, lift his helm off and stand back to let him get adjusted. He doesn’t get out much, if you get my meaning. No sudden movements, you don’t want to spook him now, chief.”

Jack glanced at Amir and waited for his nod before turning around to Delta. He lifted the helm up and then off, letting it thud to one side. 

The man under the armor was conscious, apparently. His eyes were open and he merely looked at Jack in heavy silence, eyes penetrating like screws. They were big and grey and his hair was inky dark. It was shaggy and ragged. He had a thick scruff across his hollow cheeks. 

“Jack? What’s wrong?” Amir said, voice sharp as a knife.

But for a moment, Jack and the human man in the Delta suit just looked at each other. Something about him seemed….weird. Jack wasn’t sure what to make of it. But the man’s eyes: his wide, grey eyes. They were spooky. He had some scarring on the side of his face, likely from plasmid burns.

“You know not to attack, right?” Jack said quietly to him.

The man’s grey eyes wandered over him. “Yes. I know not to attack.” His voice was quiet and even, low-pitched and emotionless.

“We should kill him,” Sally hissed softly. 

“We’re not killing him,” Jack snapped. “There’s no reason. He was taken against his will, just like the Little Sisters were.”

Amir stepped forward to help Jack get the armor open. They both used Incinerate to help cut the poorly fused metal. The man in ragged clothes, the killer sitting in the Delta suit (the reality that all Big Daddies had been brutalized, just like the Little Sisters were) simply watched them in silence. They took it off piece by piece.

“Goddamn,” Amir muttered. Delta’s body, under the armor—was still human. He was covered in a web of scars of various shapes and sizes, clearly from experimentation or torture. Or both.

“Elizabeth! Might need your help for a minute!” Jack called and held out his palm. “C’mon buddy, up you come.”

The gaunt-eyed man looked at him, then at Jack’s hand and slowly, he reached up. Taking the other’s palm, Delta allowed Jack to pull him up from the ruined suit. Jon had arms like young trees, corded with muscle but he looked bent, exhausted. At least until he saw Elizabeth, that made the man startle a little. He stared at her when she approached. Jack furrowed his eyebrows. Booker bristled, hackles coming right up as Delta took two steps forward and put his heavy palms on her narrow shoulders.

“Hands off, pal,” Booker said, tone dropping low and dangerous. He lined up his pistol on Delta’s too-human face. _(No: Jon’s face. He’s Jon Einarson, remember?)_

“Wait a second, Booker,” Elizabeth murmured.

“Booker,” Jack echoed, tone more calming. “She’d know, right? If she was in trouble, yeah? Of course, if he takes a swing, he’s dead. But just. You know.” 

His hard eyes flickered between her and— 

_(“—the young man! Einarson, Jon. Visiting Rapture! Everyone fucking knows who he is! Now, where the hell is he, Sullivan?!”)_

Booker coughed a little, feeling blood in his mouth. Something in his big shoulders relaxed, eyeing Jon. Annabelle circled the other side, skin tearing with Undertow while Amir took two steps forward with his rifle. Eli circled them, charging his crossbow and lining up a shot on him.

Jon Einarson looked back at Elizabeth as if none of the others were there, and as soon as their eyes met—

_(“Miss Elizabeth!”)_

A searing set of sapphire blue eyes flashed through her mind and Elizabeth suddenly _saw_ her, strapped down to her bed. A woman who must be Doctor Lamb loomed somewhere in the shadows, always there, always watching. Feelings towards her of intense resentment, being trapped, suffocating pain, the constant Adam injections, the influx of Adam-fused genetic knowledge, warping her mind and surroundings. How she _perceived_ the people around her with intense colors and the one good thing was this man. The one good thing, that had all her warm colors, was this man. Jon Einarson. Johnny Topside. Subject Delta. Big Daddy, Alpha Series, bonded to one partner: Eleanor Lamb.

A young lady, now nearly of age with her. Like a sister. Like another who saw through the fabric of the world. What Elizabeth _saw_ in the minds she touched, Eleanor _heard_ in every person whose Adam she absorbed. It was…a bit strange, really. To meet someone with an ability that….was almost like a reflection, or another half, of her own. 

Jon released her and let his arms hang at his sides. He kept watching Elizabeth, silent. And then his head swiveled like an owl. His grey eyes fixed on Jack with an interest that had not been there earlier.

The young man grimaced. “What?”

Jon walked over to him and took his arm. Jack allowed this, eyeing him. Creepy and silent, Jon flipped his arm over and examined Jack’s chain tattoos. “What!” Jack repeated, frowning at Delta's intense stare.

Jon met his gaze.

_(“Jack! It’s you! It has to be! I remember!”)_

Jack jerked, brain giving a nasty sharp _pulse,_ like an ice pick. His vision blurred and his eyes _throbbed._

“Jack?” Booker’s voice filtered in from his left and he felt the older man’s heavy hand on his shoulder. 

Jack shuddered and coughed, his whole body racked with it. His nose sputtered with blood. Elizabeth appeared at his other side. She sopped up the blood from his nose while he focused on trying to breath.

“Eleanor spoke to you?” Elizabeth asked.

Jack nodded a little, eyes still screwed shut. 

Eli stared at him. “Holy shit, what happened to him? Eleanor just spoke to him and his nose—wait—“

“It’s not that,“ Elizabeth said, “not the reason you think. Not like Booker and us sometimes. It’s the same but different. Something in Jack is connected to Eleanor and something is…there. But it’s nothing that I can see.”

Eli rubbed his fingers against scratchy stubble. He watched Jack, the guy kneeling down with his arms wrapped around himself going mute with hurt. Elizabeth held a rag to his nose. Eli should probably help—but his attention went to Booker. The man was circling back as Elizabeth tended to Jack, scouting the perimeter, no doubt. Annabelle was creeping around the other side, setting two or three charges and a turret. She appeared to pause and give a questioning nod to Dewitt. He appeared to agree and they both came back. _Ha, Booker Dewitt. Big Daddy. I was trying so hard to connect something to Bea—but I was totally off. Booker Dewitt was the unknown variable. Ha, I am now, finally, the Unwary Traveler._

It all went by in moments, but it should be safe enough, right? He didn’t think that this Elizabeth would harm them while he was focused on the young man. She was different from the Other Elizabeth. Eli did not like looking into Doors on the fly. It was a confusing process and everything one absorbed about another person would also be full of alternate choices. And he dreamed their dreams sometimes. And their nightmares. Fuck, sometimes this power was a damn curse. “Bea! Hey, I gotta do a thing, real quick.” He gestured uselessly, like he was wont to do. Bea nodded and walked up to them, setting a couple turrets down. 

But instead of Jack, Eli turned to Jon. “Hey, big guy, look at me.”

Jon studied him and then, in a stilted step, turned towards Elijah.

“Just stay still, not gonna hurt you. Just gonna do a thing that will help me understand you,” he said and Eli _reached_ the same way Elizabeth did. Jon’s doors opened to Eli. He saw Jon’s alternate paths. Rapture was one tiny fraction, the poor bastard. A good man, adventurous and bold. Rapture changed him. It had that effect on people. But he always came back. He never just died quietly. Either Lamb doesn’t kill him or, if she does, he is revived years later by Eleanor. That timeline was shifted forward from their present one. Again, this one was the anomaly. Amazing. And always, in his mind, was Eleanor. A rapidly growing young girl, now nearly a woman. He had to keep her safe. He followed her instructions. He _followed her instructions._ Protect Eleanor Lamb. A sickening cough syrup stench curled Eli’s stomach. Jon had been forced to do many things. He always fought back. He always fought back. 

_Even when he was so spliced up he could barely stand getting locked down in the armor. He still fought._

He never gave up. Poor guy. Like a beaten dog. But likely very intelligent and might even speak to them eventually. He had been a weapon for so long that he likely didn’t know what else to be. It had to be years of torture and experimentation. Knives and needles, muscles shaking and spasms and _changing_. It crawled around inside of him and _changed_ him. He wasn’t sure he even aged anymore. The only balm was his Little Sister. Eleanor. Even her crazy mother had not dared to cross him. (Hence Lamb had shunted him over for Sinclair to deal with because last time, Eleanor’s screams had Delta almost bring down the whole damn wall.)

Interesting.

His Adam connected him to a few Little Sisters, though Eleanor’s was strongest. Eleanor connected to…holy shit—hundreds. Thousands. Little fairy lights, fireflies, souls lit up like candles. The Adam spider-webbed through the Little Sisters and allowed Eleanor to see all around Rapture. The more Adam she was forced to absorb, the more signatures she could use. And with these samples, she could use certain plasmids to drift or reach out. To project her mind on others. Hence, Eleanor spoke to Elizabeth and clearly was the one trying to influence Delta into not murdering any of them. His connection, his warmth associated with her, he might as well be her father. Though he might only be in his early thirties, not that it mattered—but it was hard to say. All the plasmids and experimentation had changed him. Who knew how old he was now? Or if he would age at all—given the reconstructive properties of Adam. 

_Adam_ , the catalyst for a batshit crazy woman who started experimenting on kids, basically for funsies. Eli had heard, anyway. This Tenenbaum, another spider in a close-knit web: they branded their children with tattoos. Girls were usually marked on their backs. Boys were marked depending on who owned them, according to Amir. (Thank goodness that guy had seen him first when he entered Hephaestus.)

Delta opened his palm, the mark denoting it engraved into the skin. Big Daddies were different, of course. 

Eli peered to all his doors, studying Jon’s creepy silver gaze, but Eleanor either didn’t want to chat or couldn’t. She might be weakened. Her voice had only filtered through to him just the one time. He could not see farther with Jon. His life before Rapture was locked up pretty tight. Almost like, well—the splicers. The pheromone charges imprinted its command on him and he was trained to follow. He was nothing. He was no one. Just Subject Delta. _Just a tool to be used by better hands._ Eli wrinkled his nose at the thoughts, feeling Doctor Lamb loom over Delta’s shoulder. Her little castle built into Persephone with Subject Delta as her Executioner. And Gil Alexander creepily fantasizing about being the man Doctor Lamb would go to for ‘love’, whatever a creep who willingly experiments on kids would define as such. And again, Tenenbaum’s name when Doctor Lamb discovered documentation of the WYK Project, whatever that was. Jon did not seem to know what that was, just that it was important. And then—

A flash, just a moment. A young boy, awkward, too tall for his skin. His eyes were hollow and greenish-blue. His smile was tentative but friendly. He was creepily gaunt, strange to look at. But Eleanor was not afraid, he could smell it in her pheromones. So Delta just watched. She was so small and the strange quiet boy took her hand and walked with them for a time. Only through the medical wing before the boy was detained. He sensed her sadness and patted her head. 

Eli pulled away from Jon, glancing at Jack. “You said part of his mind is locked up tight?” 

Elizabeth nodded. “Yes—I looked once, part of his mind is locked out to me.”

“Same here,” Eli said, pointing at Jon. “What do they have in common?”

“They could be alternates,” Elizabeth allowed, “but it’s difficult to say once Adam enters the picture.” She shrugged. 

“We all have things we lock up tight,” Caper reminded them quietly. 

Eli frowned. “Jack, where are you from?”

“Jesus Christ, really? Fuck you, man. I’ve never been to Rapture before this! I was on a plane that _crashed!_ Soon as we get out of Fort Frolic, I can call up Atlas and prove it.”

Eli put his hands up in a placating gesture. “Not saying different, Jack. Just trying to figure out why—we have to identify the variables. I saw a boy in his head. Wanted to make sure it wasn’t you.”

“Jack,” Annabelle said, voice gentle but firm. “It’s all right. You don’t have any reason to lie to us. We know that.”

Jack swallowed hard, rubbing his temples. He glanced at Annabelle, examining the sincerity of her expression. “And what do you know about me, exactly?”

“Nothing. But Eli trusts Elizabeth and Elizabeth trusts you. I trust Eli’s judgement. He’s better with people. Comstock probably ensured he had ‘social graces’ training or whatever.”

Elijah shrugged. “He did. That piece of shit.”

“Right?” Elizabeth agreed. They both chuckled a little awkwardly, glancing away from each other again. 

“Did he make you learn to dance?” Annabelle asked, seeming unable to help but smile. Her alternate-child, her daughter. She was bright and warm and stunning. She was incredibly intelligent, definitely on par with Eli. Her eyes were so piercing blue but she had Booker’s hair. Oh, she didn’t doubt she’d wrap her father around her existing pinkie. 

“Yes, all the classics. Did you ever get to Battleship Bay’s boardwalk? I tried to get Booker to dance but he wouldn’t.” 

“Not surprised,” Eli said, consolingly. “She said he was a better fighter than a dancer.”

“He was just afraid to do something wrong, I think. Dance and fighting aren’t really all that different.” She peered back at Annabelle. “Did you know how to fight before you went to Columbia?”

“I did. When my Booker returned from Wounded Knee, he confessed that he had deserted and refused to take part in the massacre. I was proud of him. He stuck to his guts but we knew that wouldn’t matter to Uncle Sam, of course. So he went into mercenary work and I browbeat him until he would teach me to fight so I could help him. I learned to back him up and once I was comfortable with weapons, we worked together. It made me somewhat unpopular with the Ladies’ Poker Club but when we switched to detective work, it was perfect. I liked it. And at least I was prepared to take the next steps when Booker was…when he died.” Annabelle shrugged a little, almost apologetic. 

“So I taught you to fight,” Booker mused, looking at her boot. “Huh. I guess maybe not every version of me is a jerk—your Booker was a good guy.”

 _“You’re_ a good guy, you piece of shit,” Jack told him, grumpily.

That made the detective grin crookedly at Jack. He patted over his heart. “Right here, buddy. Right here.”

Eli couldn’t help the soft snort, peering at his alternate-father. It was weird seeing Booker Dewitt at the age he should have been. It was weird seeing his own features in this stranger. Caper slid up to the older man’s side, eyeing them all and fingering her blade again. 

“He gave you both great hair,” Annabelle said, rather reasonably. 

Elizabeth snorted. Eli huffed and rolled his eyes. Booker covered a disbelieving snort of laughter by wrinkling his nose and coughing a bit.

“Do I look like her?” Elizabeth asked Eli, looking at her male self.

Eli snorted and shifted and looked her over. “Well, I—not the hair, of course. But well,” and Eli looked between Bea and Elizabeth, “yeah, the shape of your face and your eyes.”

“You look so much like how I bet Booker looked when he was young,” Elizabeth grinned. Booker just shook his head a little.

“He does,” Annabelle agreed, suddenly looking a little wistful, fond. 

“Is that good or bad?” Eli asked, sarcastic and flat.

“Good,” Annabelle answered and winked.

Eli made a disgruntled sound, shuffling awkwardly. Booker fought down a small smile. It felt weird for some reason.

“And to think, Elizabeth, when I met Elijah, it was all, _yes ma’ams_ and _I’ll have you knows_ and such. I kind of wanted to slap him sometimes, to be honest.”

Elizabeth burst out laughing. Eli glared at her but he was grinning at her while he did it.

“That’s pretty much exactly how I felt about you, Elizabeth. So I guess he really is your other self,” Booker concluded.

“Wow, Booker. You are such a _stellar_ detective. I am so impressed.”

He laughed silently, shaking his head. He’d never gotten to see Annabelle grow older with him. In Columbia, she was dead before he arrived. She had a scar on her chin that began at her bottom lip and then tore down her throat and hid under her shirt. But when she smiled and her blue eyes twinkled, she was there, peering out at him. Mischievous and sly, clever and also kind. Like twinkling blue aquamarines.

“You’ve aged,” she said. “Ha, I mean, not like Comstock. But. From…..Before.”

“You have too,” Booker said and then, swiftly, “I mean, in a good way though. I mean. You took it well.”

“You too,” she replied, letting herself believe she needed to confirm it. That familiar jawline, the green eyes like dark jade stones. He had such nice eyes. And he was rangy, broad and strong and good with horses. He had scars now, a lot of them. His eyes were sadder, darker. 

He broke away first. “You know, I was looking around this place. I had a couple loose floorboards in New York. Stands to reason that he might have had a couple too.” Booker got up to go look around the office, avoiding everyone’s gaze.

Annabelle curled her fingers into her opposite sleeve. Uncomfortably aware of how much he resembled her own Booker. Just older, with a bit of grey salting his hair. He would look distinguished as he aged, no doubt. If he lived that long. Poor man. So haunted. So…

“Bea—“

“I know,” Annabelle said, voice carefully even.

“We are just concerned—“ Elizabeth started.

“I _know!”_ Annabelle snapped tersely. She braced her hands on her hips and walked away from them. Her grown son (still kinda weird) and her alternate grown-daughter (mind somehow blown again) standing side-by-side as if they’d always known the other was there. They both watched her. Annabelle tried to shake off the feeling. As well as shake off the choking tightness in her throat she got whenever she accidentally remembered the night she’d lost Booker and Alexander. An old hurt, long scarred over. But sometimes the weather made it ache. Annabelle took a deep breath, glaring at her reflection in the dark glass window. This was just rough weather. Back to the sea, kids. Put your back to the sea.

 

 

Amir hesitated before he followed Booker. The kid had really grown, now tall and strong and handsome. Probably only about nineteen or twenty. He trailed for a moment, surprisingly hesitant, until the detective looked at him.

“Dewitt. Elizabeth and Eli told me about how your other selves can share memories. Do you remember me?”

Booker shifted on his feet and nodded as he went to the desk and started poking around it. “I do. Seems like he met you when you were only nine years old—looking for Eleanor Lamb because no one else would help you.”

“Yes, and for three years, you helped me to get children away from Suchong, Cohen, Tenenbaum and the rest. That is how you met Sally.”

“And you saw him die?” Booker prompted, knocking on a slat and brightening when it made a hollow _thonk_. Booker popped the panel open. 

“Yes, a day brought me back and I came in through the heat grate. I watched Dewitt open his door, an old man stepped inside from a flash of light and he stabbed him. Just like that.”

“Typical,” Booker grumbled.

“Yes, the Detective was taken by surprise and then the old man had a bloody nose while he drug Dewitt off to the back room. When I went to the cops to tell them Dewitt had been murdered by an old man….people seemed to…have trouble remembering exactly what Dewitt looked like. No one seemed—no one thought it was weird that Dewitt suddenly had white hair.”

“Yeah, reality crossing can cause that.” He glanced over at Amir.

The kid was still watching him, searching his face for some hint of….something. Oh, right—he was friends with the Detective and now Booker was here and sort of remembered…seemed like the kid had been attached to him or something. He didn’t appear to trust any other adults. Not even his own parents. 

Booker felt a twinge of sympathy for him. “You continued though, even after he died. You continued helping other kids?”

“Yes. I built up a large network in the maintenance levels of Rapture. That’s how I ran into Elijah. I got the same buzzing feeling in the air that I felt the same day Comstock arrived.”

“Sounds like the Detective was smart to put his faith in you, then.”

Amir looked surprised for a moment and then looked at his boots. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes. But I….tried.”

“That’s all any of us can do, Amir,” Booker told him.

Night was oncoming—noticeable if only because of how the ocean darkened to deep black outside the huge windows of Fort Frolic. So it blinded him when a huge set of spotlights flipped on in the hallway. Outside of Detective Dewitt’s office, the two lights burned like gigantic eyes. 

“I should have suspected,” Cohen said, voice echoing all around them like a gladiator’s arena. “Of course you went to the Detective’s office. Everyone is going here these days. Is there anything interesting in there, Dewitt? I presume the Songbird is with you?”

“Oh shit, of course,” Annabelle said softly, glancing at Elizabeth as they gathered in the office. “He thinks you’re _her.”_

Booker took two steps forward, letting the lights illuminate his shotgun. “You want her, Cohen? Come and fucking get her, pal.”

“All I wanted you idiots to do was help me complete my greatest work! Why couldn’t you just do it?” He sighed theatrically. “What a _waste._ All that work _scrapped!_ And now, well, maybe I can create something new with all of you. And after I’ve smeared your limbs across Detective Dewitt’s office, I’ll bar it off. It will be called _Rapture Noir!_ It will be—”

Sally suddenly dashed by them. Her gauntlet blades drank fresh, hot blood as she wasted no time. A herd of splicers, Cohen and then Sally, skewering him in the chest. Booker and Annabelle both jolted and ran for the door. 

Sally pulled back and stabbed again, gutting the artist with a drag of her blade. A third time, her arm came back and metal met the pulpy flesh of Cohen’s throat. He squawked and screamed, gurgled and then died.

The splicers howled. 

Annabelle and Booker reached her just as they pounced at her, ripping like rabid dogs to try and get her out of the Big Sister suit. Bea slid forward with a blast of water from Undertow. She curled six of them in and whipped them into the wall, leaving smears of blood behind. Booker’s shadow burst with crows, all shrieking and diving as he stepped in front of Sally, firing his shotgun pointblank into the crowd of murderous splicers. 

Eli darted forward, Jack and Amir followed. Jon did not. He stayed by Elizabeth. He said nothing to her, simply kept close and intercepted any who approached her. It was kind of creepy. Caper trailed Jack, keeping splicers off his back. He and Amir appeared to work rather well together. While Jack hefted the fireman’s sledgehammer he’d found, Amir dispatched splicers with knives. Eli darted around, keeping half an eye on Bea while he _reached_ and a tear split open.

Eli found a taunt bow (just like the one Comstock had made him learn on) and a long staff, at least ten feet, with spiked blades covering the last foot. The tear vanished and Eli noted Jack and Amir watching him. 

“It’s so weird seeing someone do that. I mean, someone that isn’t Elizabeth, I guess,” Jack pondered. 

“I’d think it’d be odd to see _anyone_ do that,” Eli replied, whipping the staff to gather momentum.

“Not really, though.” Amir told them. “In Rapture, we were raised around the idea of genetic mutation. I mean, if there’s enough left of a person, you can literally rebuild their bodies. So the idea of alternate universes….I guess that just doesn’t….I dunno. It’s not that shocking to me, I guess.”

“Booker, that reminds me. Next time I get the bright idea to go world-visiting, remind me that we need a vacation.” Elizabeth threw open a tear to a roaring hurricane, the screaming mutants were dumped into the maelstrom and Elizabeth closed it after them.

In the following silence, Booker took a deep breath and looked at Elizabeth. “Hey, Elizabeth,” he started, flatly.

“Goddammit, Booker—“

“Next time you wanna go world jumpin, maybe let’s not. You know, like I warned you in New York. So consider this your advance warning.”

Elizabeth huffed. “I know. I’m sorry.” 

Booker nodded sternly and then relented. “I know. It’s all right.”

Annabelle had to fight down a sudden smile that tried to show itself. That was exactly how she’d imagined him as a father. That thought sent a spike of unease through her and she looked away. “Jack, are you hurt at all? Amir?”

“Of course not,” Amir said, full of bravado. 

Jack laughed. “At this point, we might be indestructible.”

She rolled her eyes at them playfully. “Yes, yes, nitwits. But do tell me if you do something stupid. I have a lot of experience.” She glared pointedly at Eli.

Her son snorted. “By stupid, she means brave and awesome educational experiences as I learned to manage my abilities as a healer and active combatant.”

“Clearly,” Jack said, shrugging.

“I assumed,” Amir agreed.

Annabelle glared at the three of them and then mock-whacked each of them on the shoulder a few times. 

“We’ll tell you if something comes up,” Amir said, smiling fondly at Annabelle. “Eli can do what no plasmid can. And now we have Elizabeth, who can do the same. But we will be careful.”

“No reason to tempt fate,” Jack agreed.

Eli snorted softly, like he was choking back a sudden laugh. Like all the times he’d patched Bea back together—her blood drenching him and half of her arm blown off. He hadn’t known what to do except open a tear—he’d always been able to _find_ something if put his mind to it. And shimmering back and forth was a shadow of another Annabelle. He had stared at the shade and then it clicked. Of course. Just like objects being brought through, he _reached_ drawing a copy of her whole arm through the tear. The Salts let him break it down like genetic sand, filling in the ruptured tissue and veins, rebuilding the nerves and fueling the rapid growth that suddenly made the arm _real_

It was sort of like Peter Pan and his shadow. Some soap, a few pokes and boom. Weird.

And then she was complete again. Annabelle shuddered into awareness and jumped up. She didn’t ask how he’d healed her and he couldn’t quite figure out how to tell her. Sometimes he dreamed about running up to her and finding half of her face blown off and being unable to save her. He had seen so many of her deaths. Tempting fate was impossible not to do. The hypocrite, she did it all the time. 

“Are we going back to Hephaestus, then?” Amir asked, reminding Eli where he was. He felt Jack watching him. 

“From the sounds of it, yes,” Annabelle answered. “That’s where Ryan’s office is.”

“Is that where you entered Rapture?” Elizabeth asked.

“Yes. We got separated after we arrived. I found the rift I initially came here with, in the Sea of Doors. But the glass hallway collapsed between us, we had to separate to run or drown. I ended up in Hephaestus, and she ended up near Minerva’s Den.”

Elizabeth brightened. “Is that where Rapture’s Central Computing is?”

“Bingo,” Annabelle answered. “So I got a radio or five and found the Security Command plasmid. That really helped. Those little guys are the best wingmen ever.”

“Wait, why didn’t _we_ come here from that tear we saw in the Sea of Doors?” Booker asked.

Elizabeth paused, biting her lip. “Well. I. I don’t know. I kept seeing the crash so I followed that as the sure route because I knew another me had seen it.”

Eli tongued the roof of his mouth. “Ha, and I saw the crash but did not want to start there. I guess that makes sense. I wonder how many of our choices are alternates of each other.”

Elizabeth started, grabbing into her pocket and pulling out the pendant. She turned it to face him, the cold cage, stark and strong. “Did you get one of these?”

“Oh shit…” he started and put his hand in his satchel and dug around. The same silver fitting, the same glossy black veneer. The same cage. “Huh….I guess I wasn’t sure what I was expecting. But we both chose the cage.”

“I wonder what the Other Elizabeth had.”

Annabelle glanced sidelong at Booker, seeing the scarred initials carved into his hand. It made her tighten her fist, where her own scars lingered and itched in this damp habitat. He somehow met her gaze and they both compared their hands. 

Bea rubbed her chin. “Jon, show us your hand, please? And does anyone else have markings on their hands?”

“I, well…on my wrists, I do,” Jack said, a little uneasily. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten them anymore. The plasmids had wiped out whole chunks of his memories but he displayed them to the others.

Booker eyed Jack, Jon, Annabelle, and then himself. Interesting. Like each of them were a different perspective on the same story. Matching initials, AD for him and Annabelle. For Anna and Alexander Dewitt. The children they’d lost and found again—

Jack. Jon. Eleanor. Amir.

Wait. Amir. Booker leaned up. “Amir, what about you? Not on your hands, but anywhere?”

He hesitated, dark eyes going a little sharper, guarded. “I…do have markings but they were slave markings.”

“When did that happen?” Booker straightened up, brows furrowing.

“Who was it, Amir? Do you remember? Or are they already dead?” Annabelle added, wrinkling her nose and stretching her fingers.

Amir took a breath and avoided every eye by looking at the air next to Booker’s head. It allowed his eyes to glaze over, to respond automatically and not let the overwhelming emotional trauma effect the information. “It was after the Detective was murdered. I…went in on purpose to help someone else get out. I ended up getting branded while I was there.”

“You went _in_ to the trade?” Booker stared at him. “Holy shit, buddy. How old were you?”

“I was fourteen. And tall, so I was selected for plasmid testing. They wanted boys for fighting, while they took the girls away.” Amir shifted a little, feeling Elizabeth watching him for some reason. “Uh, so—yeah. If they were young girls, they went to the Little Sister program—that always took priority when it came to subject availability.” Amir’s eye twitched. “Men were taken for the Big Daddy program. So women, teenagers and boys went to plasmid testing. I was lucky. I was only there for about a year before I got out. They spliced me up but not with anything too drastic.”

“Did you get the other person out?” Elizabeth asked, twisting at her thimble.

“Yeah, I did—but I had to stay for a little bit to cover. And I was able to get a few more out so, it was worth it.” 

Ms Comstock looked impressed. “Wow, that’s amazing dedication, Amir.”

He shifted, feeling awkward suddenly. “Uh, well, I guess. I mean, I guess I’ve been looking for Eleanor and fighting for other people still alive in Rapture for…ten years, I guess. Maybe its habit.”

“That’s as good an excuse as any,” Booker approved, chuckling a little.

Amir did a double-take at the detective. Felt something long-buried lance through him. The Detective had done a lot for him. And it was weird to…meet an adult that might not be completely crazy. That maybe they might get out of Rapture. He might actually _find_ Eleanor. _And then what?_

“Anyway, I was marked with a starchart on my side. I was owned by some prick who wanted to use plasmids to basically train personal goon armies. Yi Suchong made a lot of money on that sort of thing.”

“Well, we’ll add him to the list,” Annabelle promised darkly. 

“But first things first: Andrew Ryan.” Jack scowled and flipped on his radio as they headed out, bidding Fort Frolic good fucking riddance.


	13. Stranger Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music: The Doomed by A Perfect Circle: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P6kd0FQhd5k&list=PLQuOKHNudkmd8XwtZosj0WXzYWpuHjTxz&index=56  
> \-----------------------------------
> 
> When, exactly, had that happened? When had he strapped her down and slid a metal pin up into her brain and knocked so gently with the hammer? It suddenly seemed like it had only been weeks, days ago. And yet….it also seemed like it should have happened years ago, two years ago. Time could drag down in Rapture sure but….it made him a little unsettled, suddenly not totally sure when that event had taken place. He couldn’t ask because most of the people who’d been with him were dead. And the ones who weren’t would think he was insane if he came out and asked if he’d killed the Songbird two years ago or two goddamn days ago. 
> 
> \------------------------------------

Girls all looked the same to Atlas. When one was razor sharp, she stood out. He and Tenenbaum had spent enough nights together that the paparazzi knew about it. Of course, that was as Fontaine. Atlas, he felt, had better hair. Steinman was a real piece of work, for sure. Incredible results, when he went under as Fontaine and surfaced as Atlas. 

One man goes to sleep, another wakes up. 

But as either man, dames all were the same sort of cotton candy sticky-sweet mess. Now, the Songbird. She was different. Real piece of work, that one. But not like Steinman. She was way beyond Steinman. He heard her talking to herself a lot and he’d picked her up a few times on the cameras but she’d entered Rapture somewhere in Pauper’s Drop. Out of his range, even before the war. 

The old man he’d found, freshly impaled by a Big Daddy, had been no-one to him. Atlas didn’t know Booker Dewitt. Some small-time detective who burrowed in Fort Frolic? Just some hired copper that the little bitch had lured down here. But then the Big Daddy had wheeled around and gutted _her_ too. 

Too bad for her, for the old man, and for Sally. Until she suddenly breathed—

In one reality, Elizabeth dies from her wounds. The Elizabeth who didn’t, went back to save Sally. Atlas, of course, did not know that. All he knew was that suddenly she was aware and offering to bargain. 

So the second time he ran into her, he made sure to beat her brains in with a wrench, just to be certain. Sally watched her die again in silence. 

And like a fucking cockroach….

Atlas stared at the screenshot from the security camera. All this time as just a voice, fuzzy video feeds and half-wrecked cameras. _It can’t be._

Atlas rubbed his eyes and sat back in his rickety chair, looking across the security dashboard with Diane Mclintock. “It’s the same goddamn girl, isn’t it?”

Diane took a long drag on her cigarette between her slightly mismatched lips. “Looks like it. Unless this one just happens to have that Tear plasmid too by complete coincidence.”

This girl’s hair was different. It was longer, wavy and pulled back in a loose braid. She could have been Ms Comstock’s twin sister, but for the haircut and clothing. This girl was dressed more sensibly. But they had the same goddamn name. And she was with Booker Dewitt, again. And that incredibly interesting power, one of a kind, truly. He’d never seen anything similar. Just her. 

He beat her brains in to be sure.

Yet. Here she was again. 

 

 

Atlas thought it had to be a mistake, at first. Like a man who sees a twister suddenly far closer than he imagined. He’d been monitoring several radio channels when he began to prepare for Jack’s arrival. In the flurry of gathering supplies and setting up the bait, given his limited range from Neptune’s Bounty, he’d mostly forgotten about braining Suchong’s hot little lab assistant. Or singer. Or whoever the hell she was. Atlas had brained a lot of people in his (and Frank’s) day. They all ran together after a while.

Though, he had to hand it to her, the woman had risen his building from the trench. Atlas was looking forward to heading back as soon as he could confirm that Jack had arrived.

And then all his cameras and radios towers in Arcadia suddenly went down. If he hadn’t been so distracted watching the cameras in Neptune’s Bounty, he might have gotten a better look. But while initially annoyed that someone else had somehow survived, Atlas ultimately dismissed it. If the guy got in the way, he’d just order Jack to kill him and be done with it. Sighting a Little Sister was good information though. They were worth their weight in Adam.

But then he caught that voice on one of his other channels. For a second, he got a creepy chill up his spine—thinking of that woman, Elizabeth Comstock, for the first time in….

_Wait..._

When, exactly, had that happened? When had he strapped her down and slid a metal pin up into her brain and knocked so gently with the hammer? It suddenly seemed like it had only been weeks, days ago. And yet….it also seemed like it should have happened years ago, two years ago. Time could drag down in Rapture sure but….it made him a little unsettled, suddenly not totally sure when that event had taken place. He couldn’t ask because most of the people who’d been with him were dead. And the ones who weren’t would think he was insane if he came out and asked if he’d killed the Songbird two years ago or two goddamn days ago. 

But what he could remember with crystal clarity was the cold certainty in her glacier-blue eyes. She kept acting like she expected him to kill her, so he did. Probably because containing her would have been incredibly difficult and there was no way he could let her leave—not with that incredible power of hers.

When her skull collapsed inward and she bled onto the floor, while Sally cried her silent, resigned tears—as Atlas’ men took her away to sell her, as Atlas wiped his face on his sleeve in dismissal, he knelt down to examine her porcelain face.

_(Those cold blue eyes of hers, like ice.)_

After all, Elizabeth was no-one to him. Just some lab assistant with a weird power that she claimed was a plasmid. Suchong had probably experimented on her or something. That wasn’t necessarily out of place, given what Rapture was—but she was clearly hiding something. And clearly nuts, from the constant talking to herself. Better to just put her down before she became a problem later. Case closed. No loose ends.

But hearing Elizabeth’s voice again and going over the video feed again, watching the flash of light as she came through. The screen went pixelated and fuzzy and then died for almost ten seconds (and not just in Arcadia, but through several screens in Rapture). It flickered back on—and by then, the girl was on the move. So maybe it hadn’t been her voice and that weird power of hers…

It put Atlas on edge. Something strange was going on. 

That was when he’d decided to have Jack talk to him on an alternate radio channel. 

When they went into Fort Frolic, and was unable to hail them, he stalled as long as he could before Atlas could no longer resist his curiosity. He went hunting through interrogation recordings, prisoner notes, client files, anything that might relate to the woman. He’d assumed Comstock a done deal. She was dead. No reason to hang onto anything. He’d gotten the code words from her. That’s what he’d needed, after all. But just his luck, she shows up again and he already trashed his recordings of Ms Comstock. Still, the resemblance to the woman who arrived in Rapture in Pauper’s Drop was undeniable. That photo was still floating around. Diane had been the one to bring it to his attention. Three of her own people had been tailing Dewitt and Wyland since they’d escaped from Neptune’s Bounty. One had sighted Elizabeth in Arcadia (but, like Atlas, had lost contact with them in Fort Frolic). Atlas had compared the video from her arrival to Ms Comstock’s premier poster from almost three years ago. 

Atlas rubbed his forehead. He hadn’t planned on all this shit. He’d planned for Jack. And getting Jack to Ryan’s office was going to be hard enough without him getting sidetracked. Let alone by some kind of technical prodigy and a bounty hunter. Jack’s conditioning was amazing. The tools that Atlas could use to control the kid were varied and nuanced and amazing. But it was not made to withstand the level of scrutiny that _this_ Elizabeth kept flashing. She was definitely the smarter of the two, but the father was no joke either. Clearly, he was well-acquainted with hunting people, followed swiftly by hurting them. He wasn’t to be trifled with. 

Atlas scowled at the detective’s heavy gaze. _I ain’t to be trifled with neither._

There was just something odd about that one. About Dewitt. Something about the man just gave him the creeps. He should definitely attempt to separate them after Ryan was out of the picture. Or maybe just kill all of them. Again. 

Seriously. What the _fuck_ was going on? Third time’s the charm: this time he’d kill them for good. Cohen was being a piece of shit and had somehow blocked his transmission (he presumed, from how suddenly Jack cut out). He could only hope Cohen didn’t somehow murder the kid. Jack was his ticket out of this dump. Atlas rubbed his jawbone and shifted in his chair, looking at Diane under the fringe of his black hair. “Where, again, did the other one die?”

“Toy store,” Diane drawled. The giddy socialite was totally gone. And she had learned not to trust anyone, least of all Atlas. Their time spent together was mostly for mutual benefit. She had guns. He had Adam. They traded often and their people tended to frequent the same barrels for cigarettes. She went by Diane Lock now, and was a surprising victor out of all the people Atlas had expected to live this long. He’d tried to have her killed and she’d somehow taken out every one of his goons. Diana, like the goddess of the hunt, had sent him various body parts via the pnemo tubes for about two months. 

Diane didn’t know what Atlas’ deal was with the boy, Jack. But ever since the kid had shown up, Atlas had shut everyone out. He spent hours grinding the time, trying to listen in on the three of them. “Now these two and your boy there are pretty goddamn dangerous, Atlas. They’ve taken down several Big Daddies. Who _are_ they?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Atlas grumbled. “Once they get Ryan, they’re all deadbait. And then I’m gonna go up there afterwards to make sure.”

Diane eyed him.

“You should join me, sweetheart, have a go on the fuck’s desk or something. Rapture’s mine now.”

Diane flipped him off, eyes still hooded and bored, her mismatched smile was crooked and sneering. 

 

 

 

 

Genetic memory was a concept that Eleanor had been able to explore at length. Often forcibly sedated by her mother, constantly ingesting Adam turned her inward. The more her mother smothered her, the deeper Eleanor went. And that was when she _stepped_ outside her body.

One moment, trapped and enduring the constant suffocating heaviness.

The next, she was wavering next to the bed. She looked down at the straps holding her body to it. The bloodied cuffs that kept her ankles and wrists tethered. And she saw her mother, looking down at her with her hawkish nose and jutting chin. Her obsessive, greedy eyes stabbing into Eleanor’s prone body. 

Doctor Lamb did not appear to see nor sense her in any way. Perhaps because Doctor Lamb refused to splice. Such things were beneath her. 

So while Doctor Lamb spliced her daughter with varying degrees of genius from Lower Rapture, the doc couldn’t know what some of these things could do. That first time, Eleanor wandered from her body only around her room. She watched until her mother rose from her chair. Eleanor instinctively stayed still as glass, silent as a tomb, holding her breath and watching her mother input the security code and walk out. 

It was strange, watching her own body and then walking away from it to follow her mother into the hallway. Walls were stranger. They felt more _dense_ , at first. The young lady ignored her mother for the moment, knowing she’d be back. She tried touching at the walls with her ethereal hands, and then with her mind. Rather like she had as a Little Sister. 

That clicked.

Of course, all that Adam mixed up in them too. This was like being in that horrible fever dream, except she had control. But there were constant voices, whispers, advice, conversations from the collective memory of Rapture. It helped build the surreal plane she walked in, but it was like being stuck in the Twilight Zone, she imagined (well, _she_ didn’t, but memories from folks in Rapture who knew what the Twilight Zone was, did).

She began to practice, struggling to become self-aware from the drugged heaviness of chemical coma. It was like swimming through molasses. Her head ached and her eyes burned but anything, anything was worth that weightless freedom. The more she got, the more she wanted, the farther she wandered and the stronger she became.

The first time she saw a Little Sister, Eleanor stopped. Like a ghost in a mansion, ethereal and faint, she waited. But the Little Sister looked right at her. Her eyes went wide and gold. _Shimmering_ as she reached out her tiny dusky hand to touch. 

In two months, she led a Little Sister to her own door and mimed inputting the code. Eleanor could not physically interact with the real world, but the Little Sister could. And she was happy to help her Big Sister, Eleanor. Even when she directed her to take some of her blood. Hiromi was her name, nine years old and gaunt as a shadow. Her parents had fled Japan right before World War Two got going. Eleanor had never read a thing about that war but almost every adult mind in Rapture knew what it was. So Eleanor knew too, via the genetic-memory properties of Adam. Interesting.

She ruminated on that as she would lead Hiromi to the nearest security camera and then, on impulse, _reached_ out and touched Hiromi’s young mind. She was connected to this Little Sister via Adam, Hiromi’s Adam connected her to three thousand, two hundred and seventy-five minds. In English, Japanese, French, Dutch, Arabic, Turkish, Farsi, Chinese, Korean, Hebrew and a hundred other languages all swimming about in a loud jumble. Focusing on Hiromi took effort, took work but Eleanor managed to speak. 

_Replace the blood with mine, please?_

Hiromi had nodded, staring up at the camera in silence. Then the tiny, dark-haired girl brightened. “I’ll be right back!”

Thirty minutes later, she returned with a Big Daddy _(not my father)_ but it was hard to tell if he saw her or not. His mind was dark and miserable. He only cared that Hiromi was safe. That was all he could do. 

What a nightmare.

But he changed the blood in the camera without question. So long as Hiromi was safe. She was the only _good_. His misery was so potent, so tangible. Eleanor lost her focus, retreating to her mind to rest. To sleep. That was enough for one day. She had one camera. That was as good a start as any.

And now, here she was, three years later? Maybe four? It was hard to keep track. She sometimes drifted for days that felt like moments, seeing Rapture and what it had become. What it had been—

_—drifting ruptures in the very fabric of the world—_

A Little Sister watched Suchong study it, in awe and wonder. Heard _music_ from it. Heard people _talking_ from it, could she _escape_ through it—

Flashes of another city among the clouds—and they were _real clouds_

_India! And everywhere! Amir is going with me, he promised!_

_(Amir! Sit down at the table. I have to teach you something. Your mother has—)_

Lorna had been partnered with four Big Daddies during her two year span as a Little Sister. She had drawn from seven hundred and fifteen samples. The Big Daddies each connected her Adam to the Adam of other Little Sisters they might have protected. And like a spider web, the network of memory built itself for Eleanor to wander. 

Alone, silent, unable to interact with anyone but the Little Sisters, unable to do little more than observe. Sifting between what was memory and what was actually happening around her. She _felt_ Jack’s arrival in Rapture, his genetic memory lighting up very suddenly at the site of the crash. But when she’d originally met him, she’d been a Little Sister: she was certain of that. But her memories of that time were all a jumbled mess. 

And then, to her surprise, Booker Dewitt stuck out too. She didn’t feel him arrive. But when she saw through Caper’s mind, several memories seemed to overlap, all centered on this same man. Booker Dewitt. 

Hardly any of the adult samples knew him, it was the Little Sisters themselves who seemed to recognize him. How strange. He was not a Big Daddy, but several children around Rapture had memories of this man. Not a whole lot, but enough that they lit up like bright burning fireflies. And Eleanor wandered to each, searching out these genetic memories. 

She watched him arrive, somber and quiet, to Rapture. Watched him question Jon Topside. Watched him cover for children who had escaped the clutches of the horrific Doctor Tenenbaum or Suchong, or Cohen—take your pick. He protected them, fed them, and was kind to them. He worried about them. He remembered a woman named _Anya,_ a Russian woman, prisoner of war, who died bravely. Like a goddamn Spartan with her head held high and her piercing blue eyes sneering and hard, glaring at the—

Eleanor _felt_ Booker’s heart clench, remembering the way the blood whipped into the sand. Her head rolled off. It was hard to breath—

Or when he hid with Anya in the empty shower chamber, quick and rough, coiling his fingers into her hair and pressing up against her back. Sliding fingers into her trousers, fighting to be quiet, finding her already hot and slick, wanting to feel something that wasn’t _pain—_

And they plotted to escape—all his fault, his guilt was so _heavy—_

But then….another, older Booker Dewitt appeared and stabbed him in the gut.

Now _that_ was different. How interesting. And now, here was Dewitt again. Younger, this time. With Jack. That couldn’t be coincidence. They were coming. The Little Sisters were sure of it. They were going to come assist her, hopefully, finally. Free her. For good, with any sliver of luck. 

Elizabeth was completely different. She was not a Little Sister and had never been one. Eleanor could tell. Yet when the Sisters observed the young woman, she appeared to….understand them. Somehow. She had a strange glow and when Eleanor finally managed to get the strength to speak to the woman, her mind buzzed with incredible sense of _connection,_ of _familiarity_.

Since Elizabeth had not been nearby when Delta was going to be killed, Eleanor had frantically turned to the young man. He was strange too. He had a strange glow but….boys couldn’t be Little Sisters. For some reason, the slugs did not take. The boys all died when the slug was implanted. But he felt weirdly similar to the woman. Still, she did not answer when he reached into the fever dream of the otherworld. The Little Sisters saw him, suddenly—a knight but with no helm. His face was shining and his eyes glittering like the sea—

Something peculiar was going on. So between her jaunts, projecting her mind around Rapture, she followed her mother. Watched her get more and more agitated the longer Delta was out of contact. She yelled at Sinclair a lot via her radio but seemed reluctant to go physically confront him. She had much to do here, after all. More injections to shove under Eleanor’s skin.

Under her skin.

_Her skin_

Waxy and pale and wet from the filthy morgue—

Suchong moaning as he bled out on his desk. Ghostly dead children ushered him to his fate. Like the ghostly dead children the Japanese had raped and butchered in his village—

Sally watched the Other Elizabeth, eyes glittering and cold and burning as the white-haired Comstock, the _last_ one, bled out on the floor of the toy store.

Sally’s _hate_ and _despair._ So intense and poisonous as it seeped into her blood, drug off by Atlas to be sold again. Burning the face in her mind, that perfect porcelain white face—a glittering _snake._ So that if she ever saw that woman alive again, Sally would _murder_ her—

 

 

“I was just your bait,” Sally murmured, glaring down at Elizabeth. She seemed different from before. Her hair, her attitude, her clothes, her Booker. Her Booker was different too. But still kind and quiet and somber. He was asleep next to the door, propped up in a chair. Was the woman trying to kill him again?

Elizabeth, drilled through the gut, then beaten to death by Atlas and now here. “You died and then you came back,” Sally whispered.

The dark was heavy around them as Elizabeth slept, as Booker slept. 

“You die and then you come back,” the young girl said again, clenching her fist. Her bladed gauntlet began to burn. 

_Doomed are we all._

“What good did you or Eleanor do anyone?” Sally’s eyes burned, gazing at Elizabeth’s throat in the reflection of her gauntlets.

A hand snatched out of the dark, clamping over her mouth and her right wrist. Sally growled, hissing as she looked up and saw Delta above her. His cold, silver gaze was stern but not unkind. It was strange to see him without his armor. He did not let her fight, but picked her right up into the air and took her into the hallway. He pinned the teenager to the wall. “I must protect the girl. You cannot hurt her, Sally.”

Sally struggled against his hold, spitting. “What do you care? Doctor Lamb ordered you to kill them!”

“Yeah,” Jon agreed, raspy and soft. “Sinclair told me.”

“Sinclair?” Sally sneered. “Augustus Sinclair?”

“He’s still alive.”

 _”Fuck_ him,” Sally replied. “What do you think Doctor Lamb wants to do with them, Delta? Have a few sessions before she has you tear their heads off?”

“I don’t know. And it doesn’t matter,” Jon said, tone still level and monotone. “It’s not Doctor Lamb—Eleanor wants the girl.”

“Why?” Sally demanded, prickling up.

“I don’t know. But I have to get her there. I have to help Eleanor.”

“How does a lying sneak who got Mister Dewitt killed help Eleanor? She got _brained_ to death by Atlas! I _saw_ it!”

Jon furrowed his eyebrows. “Atlas knows them?”

“Atlas _killed_ her. She should be _dead,”_ Sally seethed. “But here she is again. And Booker too, but he’s different now. He’s…he’s…he died. She got him killed. I was her _bait!”_

Jon studied her gaze quietly. “Show me?”

Sally took out her old injector and pushed it into the port of the Big Sister suit. She drew her own blood and then Jon offered his arm to her. The Big Daddies could see memories like they could, genetically. Poor Sally. Her mind was mangled and shredded, madness and despair and hate. Dewitt had been the one good thing…

_The Songbird didn’t care about me at all. No one did. I am a thing. Nothing. All doomed._

Jon studied the girl for a long moment, considering her memories. “Her father loves her. He has to keep her safe. And she wants to keep him safe. To attack one is to attack both.”

Sally sneered, looking away. She could barely remember her own father. An idiot, whoever he’d been, for bringing her to Rapture. Some piece of shit like Andrew Ryan or Doctor Lamb, Tenenbaum, Sinclair, Doctor Alexander, Suchong or whoever.

“Go and rest, Sally,” he said quietly.

“We endure then,” Sally scowled, disgusted and walked away with footsteps of a thief, quiet and quick. She ducked into the crawlspace under the metal steps that led a grimy path to the Workshops of Hephaestus. Caper watched her return in stony silence.

Jon went back to the fire, sitting across from Annabelle. He still felt exposed and raw without the heavy armor, damp and rusty. It made him edgy, feeling the elder woman’s eyes on him. But he met them and nodded, knowing she was waiting. “It’s all right,” he affirmed. 

“Sally’s been through a lot,” Annabelle proposed, rolling what looked to be a cigarette on a makeshift tray of metal wall paneling. 

“Yes,” Jon said, quietly.

“And you?” Belle asked, offering out the cigarette. 

Jon considered it for a long moment before he gently plucked it from her. Jon folded the cigarette into his large, scarred palms. He’d made these himself once, he remembered.

“Has it been awhile?” Belle gently inquired.

Jon, again, looked startled at being directly addressed. He nodded to himself, to her. 

“No worries,” Belle told him, almost seeming like she was trying to…understand him. “Take your time, Jon.”

It was still weird to be called his name. 

_My name is Jon. Jon._

 

 

 

Andrew Ryan felt everything go still and silent. He stared into the camera feed. Johnny Topside. Subject Delta. Jon Einarson. How? How was it possible? And where had the four others come from? Now there was another young man, no _two_ more. Amir and Eli. Another woman, Annabelle, apparently. Another _child,_ Sally. And they were back in contact with Atlas. And they were all heading for him.

_Wait._

Andrew braced his hands on his desk and took a deep, slow breath. _Calm down._

He’d known this day would come, after all. He’d die in Rapture before he escaped to the surface. He had become exactly what he feared and now, he would reap what he’d sown. The one, Amir, knew Eleanor and Eleanor was Sofia Lamb’s daughter. Of course. It was all a web. 

With the sweat of his brow, Ryan had efficiently made enemies. But now, those enemies were backed by the bounty hunter, Booker Dewitt, and the lethal woman, Annabelle Watson—both of whom clearly had more combat experience than the others. And _they_ each had a….dimension-walking child. A girl, Elizabeth and the boy, Elijah. 

He’d heard of the girl but the young man was a mystery. Like Jack. The only person who connected everyone was Ryan himself. Except for Jack. 

This was going to be it. This had to be Atlas’ doing. Fine. Fine. But Andrew Ryan would not give in. He was stubborn and smart, his strength was in his intellect. _That_ was how he had survived.

This current mess started with Jack. The boy that Atlas had been quick to latch on to. The first one to step into the pod from the Lighthouse. It was genetically locked too. They should _not_ have been able to even turn the lights on. But Jack stepped inside and he touched the levers and his sample turned the power on. 

Andrew knew he was not a family man. Work was its own reward. Physical release, sex and so on, that was…secondary. He enjoyed it, like any other human but he had no desire for a family that he would very likely ignore anyway. He had slept with Diana and Jasmine. Fontaine had somehow found out about Jasmine (in Eve’s Garden, wherein the splicers said Booker Dewitt had cased for a time and then suddenly stopped). That Kraut bitch, Tenenbaum had gone to Jasmine and offered her money in exchange for her egg, once fertilized by Ryan himself. 

Jasmine needed the money. And like every other self-serving person in Rapture….she took it. Because Ryan offered her nothing except his brand, so she’d been low on funds. As was her own fault, a whore to the end. 

_Which I would have shrugged and said her victim got what he deserved, except this time—it was me. I paid her for her discretion. What did she expect? Nothing, perhaps. Because it was never about me but simply about her looking out for herself. Because that was the point of Rapture._

Tragic when it happens to you, comedy when it’s someone else. Now it was all coming back to haunt him. 

Tenenbaum was still likely in contact with Suchong, if he was still alive. After Fontaine disappeared and Ryan took over his businesses, he’d met the Korean, Doctor Suchong. A necessity, unfortunately, for Rapture. He headed the Big Daddy/Little Sister project with Tenenbaum. He was also the primary force behind the Plasmid business. He oversaw all testing, as well. He and Doctor Langford had cooked up the pheromone control systems. But she was dead, so no matter there. Likely, no one was left who could disrupt them.

There were mind control projects, of course. Genetic experiments. And if Fontaine had been the one who got Tenenbaum her funding, and as a favor, she secured the genetic material for him….

But it didn’t make sense! Jack was a young man. He wasn’t a child! 

_Unless…._

Well, there were plasmids that Steinman had experimented with, mostly concerning the aging process. Was it possible that they could have managed the same in reverse? Speeding up the aging process? 

Ryan glared at the pictures of his enemies. If the boy, Jack, was a product of Tenenbaum and Suchong, then his determination would make sense. Jack’s seeming lack of focus, memory loss, edginess—it was not dissimilar from the splicers. But listening to Jack, listening to the others speak to him and ask him questions, especially Elizabeth and Elijah….

And then the Little Sister, Caper….how she spoke about him….

_He’s mine._

That was the only thing that made sense. Jack was his son, his seed. 

So this was it. His reckoning had come. But he would not go down without a fight. He knew the layout of Hephaestus better than anyone. If this was to be his last stand, then so be it. A pathetic slave, this disgusting boy, bred only to obey—this was his son? His legacy? Clearly, he embodied all the weaknesses of the whore.

Better that they both die in Rapture.

Better they _all_ die in Rapture.

Atlas growled over the radio, “Now, _would you kindly_ head to Ryan’s office and kill the son of a bitch.”

Ryan glared at his receiver. Atlas, what an arrogant, pretentious parasite, even as a joke—the bandit playing the gentleman wasn’t funny. Atlas was a murderer and a thief. Because of him, Ryan had had to kill Julie Langford, the only person who really understood the pheromone system— 

_Would you kindly get this thing made—_

Atlas has his pathetic lies and stories and nonsensical demands—

_Would you kindly pick up that shortwave radio?_

And that goddamn audio he’d dug up from Tenenbaum and Suchong—

_Break that sweet puppy’s neck, would you kindly?_

Andrew Ryan threw open the cabinets, pulling out video tapes to review, to listen, because goddammit, that was it. That was the key. 

Would you fucking kindly.

Andrew Ryan threw every single pheromone lever at his disposal (fifteen of them) because no, he’d kindly play no such goddamn game.


	14. Family Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Multiverse by Sphare Sechs: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fWTbQMtJxek&t=0s&index=61&list=PLQuOKHNudkmd8XwtZosj0WXzYWpuHjTxz
> 
>  
> 
> \----------------------------------  
> “You been a sport, kid. You shoulda listened to Dewitt. But, lucky for me you didn’t. I’ll be by in a bit to finish up. Tell that Comstock bitch to stay where she is, if you see her, kid. I gotta make sure I give her three for me. That little bitch won’t come back to life again. See you in a few, kid.”
> 
> \-----------------------------------

“Let me see,” Annabelle said, putting a gentle hand on Elizabeth’s arm.

The girl hesitated, clearly but….Annabelle was a woman, older than her, her alternate _mother...._ but for a moment, Elizabeth just stared at her in silence. She didn’t know what to do. What to say. 

“It’s all right,” Annabelle told her, not unkindly. “I’m not out to get you, just your infection-y bandages.” She smiled gently, a real smile, Elizabeth could tell because it warmed Belle's blue eyes like sunshine. It made her want to smile back. She fought the urge.

Elizabeth’s extensive etiquette training kicked in. “Oh, of course. I apologize. You are right.” She glanced to her left, meeting Booker’s eyes and waiting for his nod before she turned to her mother—er, no, no, to Annabelle. Ms Watson.

Sally followed them with her screw-driven eyes until the two women disappeared into a side office.

They were getting close. Hephaestus was a jungle of machinery and whirling oil-driven magic that kept Rapture from becoming a sewer. Frankly, it was impressive that it was still going, given it had likely not had maintenance since this place had gone to shit. They were all tired. The splicers had been non-stop, like rabid dogs on the hunt because of those damn pheromone vents. This place was way beyond Columbia. It was also starting to get difficult to find supplies with their tears. Venturing deeper into uncharted territory. 

Amir and Annabelle had taken the lead, Booker watched their backs with Jon. The younger man was still quiet and his eyes never lifted to anyone. He just stared in silence, perhaps still in shock. In any case, Booker didn't mind it. He hadn't been much different after he came back to himself with his belt carrying sixteen scalps of fine, innocent, black hair. Jon was lost, confused, uncertain, like how Booker had felt the first time they went to a different reality and he discovered his own death. _("If anyone finds this, take it to New York. Tell him I couldn't. Tell....Anna....I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry--")_ Kinship for lives they had destroyed and full of regrets. Jon automatically took second to Booker when he wasn't directly near Elizabeth. He was extremely competent, quickly learning to read Booker's movements and silent decisions. It was sort of uncanny. He felt for Jon, in any case and accepted him immediately. Maybe Jon could sense it. Maybe he just remembered the Detective. To Booker, it didn't really matter that much--he just wanted to help the boy. Suddenly remembering his own older brother and Booker's reality-wide failure as a father. _I want to be the person I needed when I was younger._ They'd kept Jack in the middle because he wasn’t sleeping anymore and his eyes were shaking and red and the headaches now seemed to be constant. Caper stayed by his side. Every once in a while, she would reach over and touch his arm to remind him that he was still there. Still in his own skin. Still her brother. Sally was as a shadow, surveying everyone as they moved, sometimes scouting ahead or lingering behind. The girl said nothing, just quietly glared at everyone through the visor of her helm. 

Amir eventually side-railed them to a small office belonging to the former director, some Australian engineer. It had a small, private studio attached. And it was warm, so at least for that. They were getting close to Ryan’s office and they needed to rest first. Everyone was wounded, bleeding and exhausted. Elizabeth had forgotten all about her electrical burns until they’d heard a bang, the floor rumbled and—reflexively, it seemed—Eli had reached out to brace her shoulder. Annabelle must have seen the silent cringe that crossed her expression.

Still, Elizabeth hesitated again, alone with Annabelle in the studio. The older woman smiled gently, showing her open palms. “It’s all right. I just want to help you.”

Elizabeth wasn’t sure why she suddenly felt nervous. She was basically safe here. Even if Annabelle did attack her, Booker was right in the next room. He'd bring down the damn door if she needed him. Perhaps, it was instinctive that anytime she felt like she were being examined or scrutinized, her heart would start to race. Her throat would close up, it would be hard to breath. Booker had told her once that he had the same sort of physical flashbacks sometimes. She nodded swiftly, suddenly not trusting her voice. Elizabeth carefully opened up the jumpsuit.

“Oh my, yep—I see it. Wow, you really don’t do a thing by half, do you?” Annabelle took over, taking the shoulder seams in her long fingers (Elizabeth noticed that her fingernails had taken on a blackish hue, like Booker’s had when he’d begun really working with Murder of Crows, so Annabelle must have started trying it out) and carefully peeling it down Elizabeth’s slender back. “All right, it’s stuck on some scabbing, grit your teeth, hon.” 

Elizabeth believed her and so she was ready, swallowing down her shudder of pain. 

“All right, you’re doing good, one second here—a pinch—“ Elizabeth gritted her teeth as Annabelle peeled the rest of the jumpsuit from her. “Oof, looks painful. Sure it feels worse. Let’s see.” Annabelle dug around in her satchel for a small glass jar with a screw on lid. “This is some kind of healing salve. I found it in one of the genetic laboratories.”

“So probably made from a person, right?” Elizabeth managed, tone cynical and terse.

Annabelle looked over Elizabeth’s face, the girl's eyebrows pinched in that swamping helpless nausea that made it hard to want to move. _Like Eli’s do sometimes._

“It’s not your fault, Elizabeth,” Annabelle murmured, more gently, spreading the salve onto her alternate-daughter’s shoulders and spine. 

The touch was strange, light at first—until she relaxed a little—and then gently working the salve into the electrical burns, firm but gentle. It made Elizabeth feel a little odd for a moment. It felt most similar to Booker, that presence. It just made her uncomfortable, associating familiarity to this woman who was not her mother. Genetically, yes but….she wasn’t. Booker was _real._ Everyone else was just….a mannequin. 

She inwardly cringed at the word. Because that seemed unfair. Amir stuck out to her in a way people usually didn't. And Eli and Jack, Jon, Caper, Sally and Eleanor....they didn't feel like placeholders. They felt like....like people. Her resistance to getting too involved with other people, it was crumbling. She was starting to see them as more _real._ And she wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

As the young lady relaxed slowly under her palms, Annabelle worked in the salve. Elizabeth was so tense and guarded, afraid to let others see her feelings. Like Eli. Of course, ha. But they handled it in such different ways. Elizabeth had learned to play the part of the Charming Young Lady, where she buried her real fears and feelings and simply put on a show. At first, simply a defense mechanism when she began to really resent her confinement. Then it became her view, how she began to look at the world. Put on what people want to see, bury yourself so that no one can take that away. So she had little issue interacting with the boys—politeness and self-awareness were a potent armor. Booker was likely the standard by which she judged people now. She was tough and her skin was thick. 

Similarly, Eli had never had any friends and, frankly, had no idea how to manage the weird little hierarchies that boys made up. Elizabeth could ignore it but Eli wasn’t sure how to interact with Jack and Amir. And he was a little envious of how easily they worked together. And they, in return, associated him with Elizabeth and so presumed that their interactions did not apply to Eli. He was trying though, in his Eli-like way. (So, a little _too_ honest, probably. A little too serious, likely. And ready to fight at any moment.) Watching Eli with Jack was particularly interesting for Annabelle. The immediate head-butting over Eli’s suspicions of Booker Dewitt. The man himself seemed ready to bear whatever Eli dished out, but Jack and Elizabeth were loud in their disagreement. 

So, at first, Eli hung back and found himself next to the former Big Daddy, Jon. And also Sally, who lingered around both of them sometimes. Kindly, Elizabeth made sure Eli was included with Jack and Amir when they went up to examine Ryan’s circuit lock. Annabelle was actually kind of glad for all this. Eli didn’t really like meeting new people and this time, he couldn’t just hop realities.

Annabelle watched Elizabeth's flesh knit together. The salve was likely derived from a Little Sister, given how it was able to rebuild the mutilated tissue. Only a seam of scarring remained. Elizabeth shuddered.

“Rest here a moment,” Annabelle murmured and gently laid her jacket over Elizabeth’s shoulders before she got up and searched the office. It was dusty with age and emptiness. The only sounds were machines and the occasional wallowing of a Big Daddy or a chatty Little Sister, talking to herself and the dead. 

Booker knocked quietly and then searched Annabelle’s face when she opened the door. She seemed to have a hard time looking at him for a moment before she answered:

“She’s all right. Just resting while I try and get some clothes for her.”

“Yes. Uh. Here,” Booker said, like an afterthought. He held out an armful of items. “Jon and Eli scrounged them up.”

“Thank you—um—Mister Dewitt—?“

“Booker is fine. Uh, would you prefer Ms Watson—“

“No,” she said, almost too quickly. “Just Annabelle, would suffice.”

For a moment, both of them lingered, like each wanted to say something more but neither was sure what. 

“Has she said what Cohen did to her?” Booker finally managed. He tried not to look at her face too much. It was hard to ignore. Harder than he thought it would be, not letting himself get too comfortable with her. He mustn’t forget who she was. He was curious about her scar but she wasn’t _his_ Annabelle—

“I’ll be sure to ask her, just in case. She has a lot of burns—like the electric gel burns. She said it ruined her gear, ate right through it.”

“I'm sorry. I should never have separated from her,” Booker grumbled, rubbing his head.

“Cohen might have killed her otherwise.” She removed her goggles from her hair, finally looking up into his grime-smeared, rugged face. Watching his eyes flicker over her features and then accidentally meeting them. For just a moment, Annabelle felt her throat tighten up, closing like a jam jar. “Well, I’ll get these to her,” Annabelle managed softly and turned away. She closed the door quickly behind her. Her grip on the knob was white-knuckled, she took a moment to breathe before she went back to Elizabeth.

“Do you think Amir will come with us if we save Eleanor? You met him when you got here, right?”

“I did,” Annabelle answered, stepping smoothly into conversation. “And I hope he will. He’s been through a lot.”

“He seems hard,” Elizabeth said softly, looking down at her knees. “A lot of bad things happened to him. But he still kept going.”

“Yes, he did,” Annabelle agreed, walking over to present the clothes they’d gathered. “Speaking of—the boys dug these up for you, apparently.” 

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows at the clothes and then smiled a little. “The boys?”

Annabelle huffed. “There’s too many of them to go through all their names. Booker told me that Eli and Jon found them. If they were out and around together, Jack and Amir either went with them, or stayed here to keep watch with Booker. Either way, it would be polite thank them. And so I refer to them as….the boys. Because….that’s what they are.”

“What about Caper and Sally?” Elizabeth pointed out.

Annabelle looked thoughtful for a moment. “I don’t really know, I suppose. They seem reluctant to approach me.” 

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed, peering at Annabelle curiously. 

The woman seemed suddenly awkward, keenly feeling Elizabeth’s gaze. She wasn’t as graceful as Lady Comstock. “They are afraid of adults. That’s clear. I don’t want to subject them to something they fear. They like Booker. That’s good enough. I can help in other ways.” Annabelle shook herself. “Anyway, the point was—style fashionistas beware, your other-brother has weird taste and I presume Jon has none at all.”

Elizabeth laughed, somehow not expecting humor from the woman. It was a relief. “I will thank them so long as they are dry.” 

Annabelle sat down in an armchair while Elizabeth got herself situated. “What else did Cohen talk about? Booker said they heard yelling and sometimes screams over the intercoms—but he couldn’t make out much.”

Elizabeth nodded, taking a deep breath as she changed her shirt. “The Other Elizabeth, mostly. He thought she had betrayed him, passing information to Comstock or something.” Elizabeth mused thoughtfully for a moment. “Although….now that I think about it, he did say something interesting. He said I was here with ‘Fontaine’s little wolf’ and that he knew that we were looking for Andrew Ryan.”

“Fontaine….the criminal. What would he have to do with Jack?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think Jack knows and he doesn't _remember_ why he was even on the plane. And I think that’s why I don’t know.” Elizabeth wrapped her bare arms around herself, taking some deep breaths. She tried to calm the shudder in her lungs. Everything was terrible. Everything was always so _terrible—_

The scent was unfamiliar (wood and spices) and the presence was smaller than Booker, so it felt strange when Annabelle stopped sorting clothing and gently urged Elizabeth to sit on the nearby office desk. The woman sat beside her. They were almost the same height.

_The pain is just releasing endorphins, making you giddy, Elizabeth. It’s all right. Everything is all right._

The girl relaxed just a hair _(were those my thoughts?),_ even when Annabelle gently put a palm on her spine. “You are doing the best you can, Elizabeth. Booker knows that. I can see it in his face. He trusts you. He cares about you more than anyone else. And you are clearly very intelligent, like Elijah. I’m here to help him. Booker is here to help you. And. Well.” Annabelle suddenly broke eye contact, a little awkwardly. “Together, we can help both of you through Rapture. I know that it’s not ideal and if our Lady Comstock’s reaction to Eli was anything like yours, then maybe you would not want that. I completely understand. It’s difficult to separate faces sometimes…”

Elizabeth looked over at her under the fringe of her dark hair for a long moment and then sighed, “I get it. I know it’s difficult for you. It’s hard on Booker too. He’s…just as thrown as you are. As we are.”

“I just want us to be able to work together without any problems. I’d rather just get it all sorted out now, honestly and directly.”

“I don’t hold a grudge against you. I just don’t appreciate all the static Booker has been getting. Eli acts like he thinks Booker wants to murder him.”

“Booker came for you, Elizabeth. I came for Eli. He’s never met Booker until now. Comstock was all he knew.”

“I never knew _you,”_ Elizabeth reminded her.

“Presumably, I didn’t kill Booker in your timeline?”

Elizabeth glanced aside. “….no, you didn’t. I never saw one where you did.”

“I killed Comstock, instead. But Eli is just wary. He’s been through a lot. Like you.”

“Does he think of you as mother?” 

Annabelle started a little, like she was surprised at the question. “I....have never asked. It’s all strange, I suppose. It is more difficult for me, and likely for Booker, to separate the faces from other timelines.”

Elizabeth twitched, fingers suddenly restless and stretching. The instinctive kneejerk rush to _hate_ this woman who was trying to _help._ So what if she and Booker needed time to adjust to the other’s presence? It was understandable. Why not just put the rudder on and go? They would either figure it out or they wouldn’t. They were adults. They could handle it. If Booker needed her input, he would ask. 

_Trust Booker. He’s smarter than you._

“Yeah,” Elizabeth responded finally, after taking that moment to analyze why she was feeling what she was feeling. “Look…I know Eli and I were both pretty….wary about—well, you and Booker, respectively. I just don’t want anyone to hurt him or take him away. He’s my friend. He was the only person who didn’t look at me like an object. He protected me. And he’s died so many times….”

“Booker isn’t going to die,” Annabelle said gently, turning to put a knee on the desk so that she could face Elizabeth fully. “We are all going to be working together, so we can make sure of it.”

“Then if I die, like my other selves did, will you please take Booker with you and Eli?”

Annabelle almost skipped a breath, suddenly realizing the true heart of her fear: _Oh, poor dove._

“Only if you promise to take Eli with you, if I die,” Anna brokered. 

“Deal,” Elizabeth agreed quietly and held out her hand. The women shook on it.

 

 

 

“So was Slate still in Columbia?” Booker asked. 

Eli did a double-take from the firepit. He glanced around the small circle: Amir, Jack, Jon, Sally, Caper and then back to Booker. 

The man nodded. “They already know. Jack gave them the abridged version.”

That made Eli look a little more uneasy, but he answered. “Yes, Slate was there. In my reality, he hated Booker Dewitt for not participating in the massacre at Wounded Knee.”

“Ah,” Booker allowed. “I suppose that doesn’t surprise me.”

“Did Slate help you, in your Columbia?”

“No. He had already given up on winning against Comstock. So he told his guys that I could give them a glorious death and other nonsense.”

“And you did?”

Booker grimaced. “Yes. Because it was either that or let them kill me and then take Elizabeth. So yes, I killed them.”

Eli prickled a little, dragging his fingers through his hair, but then seemed to relent. “I guess that was just Slate. No matter what reality, he drives himself to destruction.”

“Why didn’t Comstock just kidnap you, have you sleep with Lady Comstock and then return you to your own reality?” Sally wanted to know, pointing at Booker. “Why bother stealing a stupid baby?”

“Because Comstock didn’t want to admit he was the problem,” Amir guessed, tone turning cynical and hard. “His ego was more important.”

Booker frowned. Rapture certainly had been rough on these poor kids. (Although, he couldn’t help but wonder if there _was_ a reality where Comstock had done _that_ instead. Weird.)

“And what, Lady Comstock was supposed to automatically be all right sleeping with a total stranger?” Eli grumbled back.

“It would have saved a lot of time and bodies,” Sally sneered at him. 

“Hey,” Booker interrupted quietly, looking between them. “It doesn’t matter because that’s not what happened. Let’s deal with what we got here, we can imagine the alternatives after we get _out_ of here.”

Jack was rocking back and forth on a hunk of armor from a dead Big Daddy. “And then….we can go back….” Jack shuddered. “We can go home. I’ll prove they’re real. That I’m real.”

Amir frowned, looking like he felt a little sorry for Jack, or maybe understood him. “No matter what happens, Jack. We’ll get you home, buddy.” 

Jon glanced up at Jack but said nothing. 

The intercom thundered Ryan’s voice around them again: “You can’t quite explain why, can you? But you _like_ it here. It’s almost…. _familiar,_ isn’t it?”

Jack looked up at the ceiling, mouth pressed into a thin line as the voice of the oligarch went out.

“He talks because he is afraid,” Amir said, pointing sharply at Jack. “Remember that. He is a cornered rat. And he _knows_ it.”

“Hey, we should talk about this Andrew Ryan real quick. I got the feeling he wasn’t real popular,” Annabelle said, reaching out to gently touch Eli’s arm to indicate he should stop. 

Elizabeth looked back at them. “Wait…Ryan hasn’t spoken to either of you?”

Eli shrugged. “No. The only one who might be aware of us is Lamb.”

“Did you _see_ her? Doctor Lamb?” Jack demanded.

“Whoa, wait, wait—how did no one notice _you_ two but everyone noticed _us?”_ Elizabeth wanted to know.

Eli opened his mouth and then paused to think about it.

“It’s…just a difference in approach, I suppose,” Annabelle shrugged. 

Booker scratched his cheek. “I make myself a target, to draw attention away from you, Elizabeth. The crows are great for that. Annabelle, uh—well, uh, takes the opposite approach?” He looked down at her curiously, walking at his elbow.

“Yes, a difference in approach. More sneaking.” Annabelle agreed swiftly, glancing at him and then away. “So, anyway, Andrew Ryan. Amir, you know Hephastus. Do you know what kind of layout we should expect in his office?”

Jack stopped short and Amir almost staggered right into him. “Jesus, shit….”

Amir and Eli frowned, looking up at the pillars in some sort of atrium or hall. There were people speared, rotting and smeared on the walls. 

Elizabeth sneered in disgust. “This is just stupid! Just. Just pointless. To try and scare these addled splicers! Nailing people to the walls like damn barbarians and he’s complaining about Atlas?”

“Careful now,” Atlas advised. “He’s stirring. Best keep to your knitting.”

“Fuck your knitting,” Sally grumbled, seemingly on reflex.

But their attention was snatched up by the incredible circuit lock on Ryan’s door. Elizabeth, Eli, Amir and Jack all gathered around it. Caper and Sally looted all the corpses and gathered all the ammunition they could find. They brought back handfuls to Annabelle (as she and Booker were curtailed to keeping watch while the kids figured out the door).

Annabelle gently thanked them both. Caper nodded a little, silent and a bit shy. Sally wrinkled her nose, glaring and suspicious and then the two Sisters padded over to Jack. Annabelle sat down by the makeshift firepit and started sorting the random collection of shells and rounds.

Booker returned with Jon, the two of them pacing the area and muscling open a door to search an adjacent workshop. At the firepit, Jon nodded a little to Booker before he ghosted over to watch Elizabeth and the others, leaving him alone with Annabelle.

Again, the two of them awkwardly tried not to catch gazes but it seemed to happen anyway.

Annabelle cleared her throat. “Have a seat?”

“Yeah, uh, thanks,” Booker said quietly, hulking down on a toppled pillar beside her. He could feel her next to him. He wasn’t even touching her. It was just this constant consuming _awareness_ of her. It made the silence stretch between them, like something unfinished or unsaid. It made him agitated, restless. A crow landed on his shoulder, pecking bloody tears into his shirt. “I, uh—look, I am not very good at small talk. I’m sorry for that.”

The hardness in her eyes faded. She looked so tired but when her eyes softened like that…he could see it. He could still tell she was there. Christ, he had missed her. Annabelle turned a little to face him, trying a small smile. “My Booker never was either. It’s all right. It doesn’t bother me. Though I do hope your puns have gotten better.”

“Probably not,” Booker sighed softly. It was hard to look at her….and yet….his eye kept trying to go back. To follow the softer curve of her face, the lines of her cheek, her blood-splattered hair, to make that all go away. To fix what he hadn’t been able to with his own Belle. He was trying to focus on the matters at hand but part of him was distracted. Wanted to trace the scar from her lip and see how far it went—

Booker looked away, feeling a suffocating spike of shame. He shook himself. 

“This is harder than I thought it would be,” Annabelle said softly, so Eli and the others wouldn’t hear her. “I am not angry with you. You clearly suffered. It would be cruelty to subject you to more. Elizabeth is loyal to you. I just want to help you. I don’t know if we’re going to melt universes, but at this rate—the damage is already done. Elizabeth told me that her other selves tend to die in Rapture. She’s afraid she’s going to die and leave you on your own.” She gestured pointlessly. “I know it’s none of my business,” she went on, almost too quickly, “but I just want to let you know that we will not strand you here if something happens to her. God forbid. I just met her, I don’t want to lose her before I get to see if she’s more like you or more like me.”

“Oh,” Booker said awkwardly, fumbling at what to say, “uh, oh. Well. Okay. Uh. Thanks. Same to you. Or the boy—I mean, Eli.” Booker couldn’t seem to help but lean up, watching his dark-haired, green-eyed alternate-son. His son. So weird.

“We named him after your older brother, Alexander.”

The detective stiffened a little, looking sidelong at her. His elder brother had died when Booker was eleven and he was sixteen. Alexander had taught Booker all kinds of stuff and they even spoke Souix together. Alexander had taught him to shoot his bow from a horse and later that same summer, was robbed, killed, and left in a ditch not far from their farm. 

Booker looked at his knees, weaving his fingers together. “Thank you. I appreciate that.” 

“Eli has been through a lot, like Elizabeth has. I hope you’ll give him some time to get used to you.” 

“I understand his wariness. I don’t blame him,” Booker said quietly, shrugging. “He wants to protect you. Comstock murdered his wife. I remember him doing it. And sometimes I have to remind myself that I’m capable of some really…..horrible stuff.”

“Comstock killed his wife. Not you, Booker.”

“And you didn’t _let_ your husband die,” Booker replied, simply. “Your Booker was a much better man than me. And you seem pretty similar to how I remember you—her.”

Annabelle looked at the worn knees of her trousers. “How so?”

Booker was quiet for a moment, scratching his cheek before getting up to put some pieces of a broken chair in the makeshift fire pit. “It’s in your eyes, mostly. They’re hard and dark but…when you smile or sometimes—the way you talk. Uh. It just….”

“…who you are shines through,” Annabelle ventured softly, still looking at her knees. “Bits and pieces of the people we remember. Still there in us, but slightly changed. Not exactly the same. But not all that different, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Booker agreed, quietly. 

Annabelle took a deep breath and then offered him a cigarette with a resigned, crooked smile.

He snorted on a faint laugh, which a real smile softened before he took the roll of tobacco and thanked her.

 

 

Amir ended up being the one who found the bomb schematics and got them what they needed in Hephaestus. The four of them went to work to piece it together. That was the bee's knees, as far as getting in to Ryan. With the circuit lock overloaded, the door shut down, opening to them. It led into a large sort of command center. 

Andrew Ryan himself, the man, the legend, appeared on a massive screen above them. “And now, the last thing. Jack, come and speak to me, child. My greatest disappointment.”

Jack scowled. “What the hell is he talking about—“

Booker felt his gut seize in realization. 

_("Come here, child.")_

“Jack, hey, wait a second—“

“No, Detective, no more interference. This is to be the last.” There was a faint spray above, a mist of something reddish, different from the greenish pheromone mists that controlled the splicers.

“What the…” Annabelle wrinkled her nose. 

“Water?” Booker mused, touching the damp mist as it layered all of them.

“Oh, no—it’s pheromones!” Eli exclaimed, whirling around to the others. "Cover your faces!"

“But none of us have been consistently on Adam long enough for it to take hold,” Elizabeth said, rather reasonably, shrugging.

But then Jon grunted suddenly, heading spiking a nasty _pulse_ and his nose was suddenly full of that nauseating cough syrup smell.

“Except for Subject Delta and two rogue Little Sisters,” Ryan growled over the intercom. “Get rid of the others, Delta, and bring Jack to me, unharmed.”

“No,” Sally muttered. “No, no, no, not again. No. I won’t. No! No!” She grabbed the sides of her head and crouched low on the floor. Her nose began to bleed. 

Caper shrieked, trying to get the horrible command out of her mind, trying to drown it out. She frantically pressed the trigger to raise her helm, so it would filter the air but the damage was already done. She felt instantly nauseous. And then, like a missile, barreling to the forefront of her thoughts: 

_(Fightkillfightdrinkthemfightkillthemall-Jack-goes-to-Ryan-or-we-all-fall- **down** -fightfightfightfightfightfight)_

Jon groaned, clutching his head, everything searing down to the nerve-endings. “Goddammit…” And then his hard grey eyes came up, looking at Jack. He had to get Jack. Had to save Jack for the end. The others must go. The others must go. The others must go—

The first one to fight him, the woman. Jon whirled around, grabbing Annabelle by her throat, slamming her into the floor. And then made to give her neck a sharp _twist—_

Booker lit up with Shock Jockey crystals, using his whole hand like a knife, directing a pinpoint strike at the man.

“Jon, no!” Eli flared with Devil’s Kiss, a whirling whip of fire blazed around him like a molten snake. 

Annabelle slapped the floor with Bucking Bronco—which threw them both up into the air. Amir took aim with his rifle—

“No, wait! Amir! It’s not Jon’s choice, remember! They’re making him!“ Jack said frantically.

“Knowing that doesn’t stop him from murdering us!”

“Eleanor wants him to live!”

A chunk of buzzing crystals slammed into Jon, smashing him into some monitoring equipment. Booker put himself between Jon and Annabelle. “Jon, I need you to listen to me. It’s Booker Dewitt. Do you remember me?”

“Shut up,” Jon muttered. “Shut up, just shut up.” He drug his fingernails down his face.

Eli ran to his mother. Kneeling beside her, frantically looking her over, but she only nodded, of course, like she was fine. He searched the room. “Jack! Amir! We should get Jon out of here!” He planted a shield in front of Annabelle and then pulled his crossbow. 

“Jon, Andrew Ryan is screwing with your head right now, with a pheromone mist,” Booker told him, trying to maintain eye contact with the young man. 

“I know, I know. Just shut up. Just fucking shut _up!”_ Jon drug his hands through his hair. “Why can’t any of you stay out of my fucking head!” He suddenly switched to Security Command, calling gunner bots to himself. 

“Jon, goddammit!” Booker yelled at him, pulling up his shotgun. The man blasted the detective across the room with Incinerate. 

Eli opened fire with the crossbow. So Delta whirled on him instead of bearing down on Booker. Jon wasn’t as big without the Daddy suit but he was still fast, powerful and dangerous. Jack, again, tried to interfere, trying to use Telekinesis to _hold_ Jon in place. That was a mistake. Delta immediately bellowed with rage, firing his rivet gun at Jack.

Amir and Elizabeth shifted at the same time, circling Delta. Elizabeth stiffened her fingers like arrows, like a medium for the incredible power that _rocked_ through her as she threw down Shock Jockey crystals to try and fence Delta back. Amir flickered through the dark, slamming into Delta from behind. Eleanor's childhood friend was like a specter, a _hunter._ He slammed into Jon to knock him off balance and then bounced back so Jack could recover. Eli shot two of his trap bolts to entangle Jon--but the former Big Daddy simply ignored the jolting wires. He grabbed into one and _ripped_ it out of the wall, swinging it back at them--

Annabelle staggered up, sprinting across the massive room and throwing a sheet of ice across the floor to slide to Booker. She switched mid-slide to Undertow, gathering water to herself in long ropes.

\--so the boys had to duck. Plenty of time for Delta to pull up his fist to call on Gravity Well. He twisted, bit into the floor and _ripped_ it up. It tore into the air like a metal spine. Booker, staggering up, plummeted through it and vanished. Annabelle swore, barely managed to stop at the edge and then threw her arm over the abyss. A whip of water cascaded after the man, flooding inward to coil around him and starting to lift--

“Booker!” Elizabeth whirled away from Jon, sprinting for the ruptured metal instead. Eli followed in hot pursuit.

Jon picked up the rocket launcher. The blast was white hot, throwing the Comstock teenagers aside and then slamming into Annabelle like a brick wall, faintly aware of pain and shattering glass. It flung her off the ice-crusted edge. 

Jon dropped it and turned, lifting his palm and _blasted_ Amir with Sonic Boom. The boy slammed, first into Jack, then back into the wall. Delta barely stopped, using Winter Blast to cover the hole. Eli shook himself as he staggered up, shaggy hair matted with blood and legs gashed and bleeding from the blast. He pulled the laser cell gauntlet out of his satchel. 

“Eli!” Jack roared at him. “Don’t do it! Don’t!”

“He’s going to murder us!”

“Eli!” Amir shouted, gesturing behind--

Too late. Jon grabbed him by the shirt—

Eli clocked him with a swift right-hook, barely managed to block Jon’s brutal downward strikes and whipped around the Big Daddy.

And behind Delta, Elizabeth reappeared, throwing down more Shock Jockey crystals like gigantic chess pieces. Eli scrambled to get out of the way, rolling out of range and whirling around to watch Elizabeth. Her control over Shock Jockey was impressive. She used it in pinpoint strikes or she would create webs and electrified nets with it. Eli supposed it was rather like his control of Devil’s Kiss, Booker with the Crows and Annabelle with Undertow. They all had ones they regularly used but they’d all sampled from each of them. 

Jon hesitated in front of the web, looking through it at Elizabeth like he was suddenly uncertain. He had to protect her. But he had to take Jack to Ryan. He had to take Jack to Andrew Ryan. The hated Andrew Ryan. The Inner-Tyrant in the flesh. Why would he ever do that--

Eli attempted to grab into him with Possession. Delta roared, the man’s eyes lighting up in pain and rage. Screaming, yelling, when he felt the Vigor attempt to clamp down on his mind. Another foreign presence trying to make him do their bidding—

Jack staggered up. “Stop! Guys! Stop! I’ll go talk to Ryan—you’re gonna kill each other!”

“This is pretty obviously a trap,” Amir told him, sternly. “Ryan can’t be trusted. He’s a liar, just like all the others.”

Jon used Insect Swarm and dashed passed Eli, grabbing Amir. The bees swarmed in on them, stinging Amir over and over again before Delta shot out one of the wide, clear windows and threw Amir down into Hephaestus. 

“Chocolate and grapes, candy and bait, dinosaurs and crepes,” Caper muttered, hands fisted over her helm, fighting against the compulsion. The urge to get up, whirl on all of them, _gut_ them one at a time--

Sally sputtered blood from her ears and then suddenly bolted at Elizabeth. The Big Sister went on the attack, bladed gauntlets shining in the red light and blaring sirens. Elizabeth dodged back, whirling around Sally and snatching a poker from Ryan’s fireplace. 

“Sally! Sally, listen to me!”

“You die and then you come back.” She stabbed, slashing, spidering around Elizabeth. “You died. All of you died. You’re going to die again.”

“Sally! I didn’t kill Booker! Those were others who look like me—“

Sally slammed into her, smashing her into the wall. Elizabeth swept around her, imploded the air between them with Gravity Well, which took out the remaining windows and threw Sally into the ceiling. She dropped like a rock onto a bullet-proofed desk, cracking her skull on the protective glass. Elizabeth cried out, running to aid the poor Sister, the poor mad little thing, it wasn't her fault--

But then the metal flooring once again reared up like a great metal whale under her feet. It tossed her and then _slammed_ into her, throwing her out the shattered windows to fall into the maintenance levels of Hephaestus.

"Elizabeth!" It was Eli who yelled it, flashing forward, blasting with liquid fire--

But Jon went through it, rolling through the flames like a shark and suddenly _hooked_ into the Comstock boy with Telekinesis. The teenager struggled and swore, trying to step back but he was too slow, Jon snatched him, holding him in place with both fist and plasmid. Eli choked, fighting with Delta’s iron grip clamping his throat. He couldn’t breathe, eyes watering. He was barely managing to hold Jon's fingers, muscled arms straining. Jon slid forward and slammed his boot into Eli's knee. The younger man collapsed inward and Jon took him to the floor. He slammed Eli's skull into the metal--

“Jon! Jon, stop! Stop it!”

The big man paused. His slab-grey eyes looked at Jack.

“I’ll come with you to meet Ryan. Just let Eli go. Let him go, Jon. Please?”

Jon dropped Elijah. The Comstock boy fell like a rock, gasping for breath. His eyes rolled back in his head.

Jack looked down at him, silently hoped he’d be all right and then turned away to let Delta break down the door into the surveillance room. The pin board with all the notes caught his eye instantly.

Jack stared at it. 

_Would you kindly?_

It was smeared across the wall like blood and rage. A common-enough phrase, though. What did that mean? Then he noticed his own face looking back at him. Jack jerked away. “No, no, way.”

“So you have memories?” Ryan asked gently, almost mockingly. “Come in, child. Jon, you may go.”

Jack entered a dark room, there were high walls made of glass, caped in shadows. As commanded, Jon stopped at the door. And then it _slammed_ shut in Delta’s face. The pheromone vents rumbled as they powered down, letting the reddish mist die out like fading fireworks. 

“How old do you think you are, Jack?” Ryan mused, suit still crisp and neat. A fresh cigar and a new kerchief in his pocket. He looked like a man out on Sunday. “Also, I do have to wonder—who chose Jack for you?”

Jack stared at him. “Look, we just wanted out of here, asshole. I couldn’t give a shit—“

“Stop talking, would you kindly.”

Jack’s mouth seemed to snap shut of its own accord. 

“All the weaknesses of the whore,” Ryan muttered. “Come in and see what you could have been an heir to, Jack.”

“Heir?”

Andrew Ryan looked at him with disdain, borderline disgust. “So, would you kindly? Do you like that phrase? Your kindly master has been very careful about it. Since the moment you arrived—“

_Pick up that shortwave, would you kindly?_

Jack touched the radio, still on at his belt. _They were right. Fuck._

It was Atlas all along. _("Would you kindly turn your radio fifteen channels clockwise, boy-o.")_

_(“Break that sweet puppy’s neck, would you kindly?”)_

“A powerful phrase, yes? So, do it. Obey. You pathetic drone, sleepwalking through three years until you could board a plane on your own? Who did they send you to on the surface?”

And then the club was in his hand. And suddenly, even though he’d wanted to get back at Ryan, Jack balked. What the fuck was happening—Ryan’s flippant commands: run, stop, shut up—would you kindly? 

But Jack’s arm didn’t balk. And he struck. And he struck. He felt the bone give through the rod of metal. He felt blood hit his face. He heard Ryan groaning and moaning, yelling at him, commanding him—

Kill.

Kill!

KILL!

So Jack did.

When Ryan collapsed, so did Jack. On his knees, staring down at his….at his father? His father—how? How did that even…make sense? What? 

And then Atlas yelling, “Get that key off Ryan and would you kindly put it in the damn machine!”

Jack couldn’t even resist. He just acted, automatic. He tried to stop but it just—happened. He inserted the keycard and the machine powered down. The sirens and alarms lost their voices. He heard Atlas change his accent and basically tell him Ryan was telling the truth. But it—nothing made sense. How could that happen? 

The sudden loss of total control, like a passenger in his own body. He was numb with shock as Atlas taunted and insulted him, wished him goodbye.

“You been a sport, kid. You shoulda listened to Dewitt. But, lucky for me you didn’t. I’ll be by in a bit to finish up. Tell that Comstock bitch to stay where she is, if you see her. I gotta make sure I give her three for me. That little bitch won’t come back to life again. See you in a few, kid.”

Jack stared at the machine. He couldn’t process. Just that Fontaine was coming. He was coming here to make sure he was dead. He was—

_(Get to the heat grate! Lorna is there!)_

Lorna had, indeed, appeared by the heat grate. The little black girl waved at him urgently and all the doors were still locked shut. Hopefully, Jon and Eli would wake up in time to scram before Fontaine came knocking. Jack slid into the grate like a baseball player and so missed the hole in the floor. 

He fell into the dark.


	15. Atlas Shrugged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To you, Mister Fontaine:  
> Bourbon Street by Jeff Tuohy: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2kQSFyq6mac&index=23&list=PLQuOKHNudkmd8XwtZosj0WXzYWpuHjTxz&t=0s
> 
>  
> 
> \------------------------------------------------------  
> “What the fuck does that mean?” Atlas asked, looking more curious now, academic, even. 
> 
> “It means I saw Elizabeth Comstock die twice _too,”_ Sally growled. 
> 
> \--------------------------------------------------------

She was kneeling beside him. Eli could feel it. He could feel _her,_ shimmering in the dark. He couldn’t open his eyes before. He couldn’t _see_ her. Not like Elizabeth had _seen_ her. But here she was, kneeling beside him. A fair-faced angel with burning blue eyes, like blue fire. Like fire. Like the burning sky when he and Annabelle took on the Vox—

But then she touched his face and suddenly—everything cleared.

His vision focused, saw the rest of her. Her pretty golden shift, like a girl’s slip (he’d heard). Her gentle touch against his cheek. She was striking, really. Determined and focused on him, her hair a tousled mess but sliding a palm under his shoulder. Eli felt himself breath, going with her touch like a seesaw. 

She leaned into him and a warm cinnamon scent ghosted over him. She whispered urgently in his ear. “Eli, you have to wake up.”

Eli felt like he was moving through molasses, like he was trapped in a wall of wood. Part of him wanted to pause for just a moment, just a moment to bury his nose in her throat and breathe in more of that _scent—_

“Eli, Atlas is coming. He’s going to kill all of you.”

Eli bit down on his lip, forcing himself to breath, disrupt unconscious paralysis. 

“You have to wake up, Eli.”

_(Please! Wake up!)_

“Eleanor!” Eli jerked, gasping for breath. 

Caper was above him. She reflexively jerked back and then she gripped into his arm. “We have to go,” Caper whispered urgently.

Andrew Ryan’s office was very quiet.

Very quiet. 

_Oh shit—where!_

The young man sat up. “Caper,” he said and then looked around. “What happened?!” 

Caper scrambled up too. “We have to go. Atlas betrayed us. He’s coming up to finish us. We have to go,” she repeated.

Eli nodded, noting that the hole in the floor was still a solid sheet of ice. All the doors were now locked down. The windows were totally shattered. “Who’s left? Me, you?”

“Sally and Delta….” Caper told him, nodding a little more warily to Jon. 

Eli touched his throat and then clenched his fist. The skin burned, but the agonizing pain followed with dead nerves. His fists crackled with embers and then faded. 

“Eli…”

“Check around for any vents, Little Sister or otherwise. Keep to the shadows if this Atlas guy comes in.”

Caper nodded and then whirled around, hurrying across the destroyed control room to unearth Sally. She threw the elder girl over her shoulder and carried her to the back corner. Caper jammed her injector into her own thigh and then pushed it into Sally’s.

Eli approached the observation chamber, formally affixed with cameras—it was now a haphazard chart connecting Andrew to Jack—

_Well, shit._

“Would you kindly?” He murmured to himself. What was that? A code phrase? Eli studied the names for a moment, attempting to burn the faces into his mind. And then, “Oh shit, yeah!” He still had his genetic camera. So he took a few shots of the room. 

Jon was just inside the next doorway. His back was to Eli. “I might have killed them,” he admitted without any prompting from Eli at all. “It’s hard to remember, each time it happens, but I threw Amir out the window. And I stung him to death with bees, probably.”

Eli watched the back of Jon’s head, carefully. He kept out of grabbing distance. 

“The detective, the only person who tried to find me when I went missing. I threw him and your mother down into Rapture’s maintenance levels.”

“Atlas is on his way, Jon,” Eli said, voice low and careful. “We need to get Caper and Sally out of this room.”

“I do not know what happened to Elizabeth Dewitt,” Jon said quietly.

Eli closed the distance, grabbing onto Jon’s shoulder. They were nearly the same height. “Elizabeth is smart, Amir is smart. Annabelle can handle Dewitt. Our immediate concern is that this guy Atlas betrayed Jack and is on his way up here to finish the job.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because Eleanor told me,” Eli replied, meeting Jon’s intense gray gaze and holding his ground. “He’s going to kill us. I don’t know if that means him or if he’s just sending friends but either way, we need to get out of this room.”

Jon redirected, pivoting on a dime and tested the door into Ryan’s office but it was still locked down. He and Eli hurried back into the room of equipment. 

And then all the lights went out. 

_BANG!_

Something huge thundered against the sealed metal door. A voice yelled, “All right, override the system! Tell him we’re in.”

Eli felt a touch on his back and jerked to the side, but it was only Caper, haunting out of the dark. Sally was on her feet. “What’s happening?”

“Jack and the others are gone,” Eli said, keeping his tone steady instead of imagining Annabelle’s broken corpse hanging from a railing somewhere. Dewitt had fallen first, his mother had, of course, chased after the man. Likely, purely on instinct. The two of them must have been the toughest of all their alternate selves right? They were _here_ right? So even if Eli died—she would survive. While difficult to shake his lingering suspicion of his not-father, at this point, he’d have to trust the man. “Atlas is outside the door with a pack of goons. They’re about to override the electric locks to force their way in so they can kill us.”

“Then Ryan’s door should open too!” Caper exclaimed, whirling around. The other three followed her, sprinting across the room, veering through the observation chamber with the ominous message that caught everyone’s eye as they passed. 

Jon looked at the security light. Eli ripped the electrical panel open—but then it _dinged_ and suddenly the door slid open. The four of them ducked inside and Jon whirled around, reaching into the guts of the wall and jamming it closed with his hack tool.

There was a flurry of muted gunfire and yelling on the other side. 

“Oh shit—this is where the pheromone controls are.“ Eli gestured to Jon for the chemical thrower pack. 

The other man looked at him a moment and then cottoned on. Robotically, Jon went right to the controls and shut down all the pheromone vents of upper Rapture. Then flipped other switches one by one, disabling the lockdown on Rapture’s security system, whitelisting the bathsypheres and airlocks. Only Ryan’s personal security remained, which Jon was quick to override and commandeer, activating it from within to go after those without.

Eli ripped out another radio from Ryan’s desk, reloaded his pistol, the machine gun and his carbine. They could hear the security bots fighting with Atlas’ men. He did not dare hope that would stop them though. He set up electrified wires with the crossbow and then, on a whim, switched to Shock Jockey. He slammed chunks of crystal into the ceiling and walls like he’d seen Elizabeth do, creating a web between them and the door.

“They’re going to torch through the metal,” Sally growled, lowering her cracked visor.

Caper glared down at Andrew Ryan. “We should burn him. To make sure no one can revive him somewhere else.”

Eli looked at her, then at the corpse and nodded. A twitch of his fingers and the man burned down to ash. The flames reached up to grab into the shadows, illuminating the middle of the massive room like lonely travelers, beset on all sides. 

And then the metal door caved. 

Eli looked sidelong at Jon, then the children. _You ready?_

Jon met his eyes and seemed to understand his unspoken question. The man looked down at first, apologetically, but he nodded. 

“All right, nuke the pheromone controls,” Eli directed and stepped ahead of the Sisters.

The Unwary Traveler, in uncharted territory. He had to act. He had to _do something._

 

The Traveler was a figure that did not really exist. Eli had made it up when he was little. It was more an idea rather than a character. Because sometimes he had dreams about a man he didn’t know and a bright-eyed woman. The tears that began to manifest when he reached puberty—were a form of wish fulfillment. And he wanted to know who they were. The man he didn’t know and the bright-eyed woman.

Maybe they were parents? Or maybe just scientists that he remembered for some reason. He couldn’t ever recollect much else about the images. It was just the _feeling_ it gave him. And when he hit puberty and began to really resent his confinement, he started withholding information from the doctors who constantly talked to him. Elijah didn’t know who his parents were, his entire life had been in that stupid Tower. He’d started asking questions around thirteen. But his doctors and the scientists simply refused to answer anything about why Elijah was there. 

So he started reading about lockpicking, ciphers and chemistry. He melted a hole in his floor via supplies he got from a Tear he’d manage to open. Just a tiny door, a little window to some other place. It was just a single room, locked from the outside but underground. So Eli grabbed the supplies and then closed the window. 

That was when the Luteces came by to examine him. This did not generally happen often. He usually only saw the twins once or twice a year, if that. They were extremely busy doing….whatever it was that they did. So he sat shirtless on the examine table in some loose trousers.

The woman, Rosalind Lutece, was sharp as a tack. Pretty, yes, and graceful. A fiery redhead with a composed, tactical mind but her constant exasperation with the entire world, while occasionally funny, was mostly just tiring to listen to. So when dealing with her, Elijah just let his eyes glaze over. She looked at him all over, examining his broad shoulders, the color of his eyes, and the length of each finger. They seemed a lot more _curious_ about him suddenly. 

It was still weird being touched—they treated him politely but with indifference. He was their patient. Or subject. Or….something. He was alone so much—he was just never touched. It was weird.

The brother, Robert, he peppered him with questions about his tutoring and what he might be interested in learning. “The benefactor of your present situation is funded through our client. Whatever you wish to learn, Elijah, we can accommodate. But unfortunately, you cannot leave.” 

“Sounds to me like you simply need an outlet,” Rosalind said, with that cool eye-brow lift. Her eyes slid up his torso, over his chest and up to his face, critical and examining. 

Of course, Elijah did not know that that would mean the Syphon. To be trapped permanently in his Tower. They redirected some of his studies to include hand-to-hand combat (where he got to go downstairs to some kind of manufactured outdoor area). Merely to distract him. And for awhile, that worked. Until he got to fifteen and was then pretty proficient with a traditional bow and arrow, spear and basic combat. That was the first time he switched from picking locks to climbing up walls to try and reach Songbird’s…..attic or whatever the hell was up there. He wasn’t strong enough back then to make the near vertical climb. He’d fallen sixty-five feet and somehow hadn’t snapped his spine (he had to assume, since he wasn’t dead—that whole episode was still a bit fuzzy). 

But when he was finally permitted back into the library, it now had this creepy statue shaped like Lady Comstock all composed and regal like the Virgin Mary herself. Looking down. Watching him. He scowled at her.

Four years later, he would also come to know that the Luteces had two of Booker Dewitt’s fingers in a sealed jar in their house. Meaning if Dewitt had lived, instead of died that night, he might have developed the same power as Elijah and Elizabeth.

_”It would seem the universe does not like its peas mixed with its porridge.”_

His tutors made him study mathematics, physics and avionics. He decided to teach himself chemistry, lock-picking and history.

Books. Somehow the one thing that would always repair the rifts caused by Eli’s resentment of his confinement. Songbird brought him books. He would thunder into the nest up above and swoop in low enough to seal the entrance, then the whole place would rumble, opening the secondary guard plate and allow Songbird into the library. 

He was massive and not very graceful in such an enclosed space. But he had always had that problem. The library was the one room that he could get in to. Maybe he looked at it as Eli’s ‘nest’ because he started bringing him books, piling them up. When Elijah was tiny, he remembered being afraid at first. Songbird was so huge and metal-shaped, hard and cold and smelling like sulfur. But every night, the huge metal thing got inside the library and settled onto the floor. 

Elijah spent most of his time, even as a child, by himself. No one came to address his nightmares or read him stories. He talked to his instructors on most days. Otherwise, he was confined to the Tower, alone. That was the night he decided to get up from his bed and creep out into the hallway. He could still remember that. Being about five or six and finally walking up to Songbird at his nighttime perch on the library’s bottom floor. 

Songbird opened his big glass eye and lifted his beak. The little boy took a step back. The bird leaned forward and Elijah reached, putting his tiny hands on the metal beak. Patting the bird, smiling a little, talking to him. 

The next night, when Songbird came back, little Elijah hurried from his bedroom with a flashlight. This time, running down into the library and showing Songbird a book about birds. Songbird, of course, never replied but he nodded and he paid attention and sometimes even squawked like he understood. Maybe he did? Eli wasn’t sure and was trying to figure out what kind of bird Songbird was. He was just so _big!_

That was when Songbird started bringing him books. Who knew from where. Presumably people in Columbia? But maybe he got some from down Below. He must have—because some of them were _fiction_ books. Not the classics, not just Shakespeare and the like—

But just…stories. 

_The Country of Pointed Firs_ by Sarah Jewett. Stories about people who lived down Below in the US state of Maine (people just like them, so why was Comstock so anti-Down Below or whatever?).

 _The Pickwick Papers_ by Charles Dickens, comic mishaps and strange, interesting characters.

 _Our Nig_ by Harriet Wilson, a bi-racial girl and the heartbreaking horrors she suffered….

Even when the stories were wrenching, he couldn’t seem to help but want to finish. And then he started thinking of his own stories. He asked for paper and pencils, asked to learn French and Russian. 

And then Songbird got a copy of a picture book in a language he’d never seen before. It turned out to be _Shank’s Mare_ (Tokaidochu Hizakurige) by Jippensha Ikku. The language was Japanese and so he turned to that, as well. His curiosity would not let him alone. He wanted to translate it, to make sense of the pictures. So, eventually someone found _someone_ who could speak it and brought him a teacher. 

But when he finally revealed the book—it was confiscated and lessons cancelled. They grilled him on how he’d gotten it but Eli played dumb so they wouldn’t find out about Songbird. He hid all his favorite books after that. 

He should have made his own Door and stored them there. 

_Did I ever try that? Making my own world? I don't remember?_ He'd have to ask Elizabeth if she had ever made her own realities. 

But for now, the only door he was concerned with was Andrew Ryan's, when a herd of people finally burst through it. The first wave hit the wire traps, then Jon’s proximity mines but after the first guy got charred to a crisp on the Shock Jockey web—the others hesitated. 

Then Atlas himself entered the room, wiping his hands on a rag and chuckling. “Must have driven Ryan up the wall when he figured it out, haha!” 

Sally made a soft, rough sound. Atlas. Fucking Atlas. Here he was again. _You die and then you come back_

“Well, well, well,” the man said, swaggering up and looking at the net. “Nice work, this. The Comstock bitch?”

“Gone,” Eli answered. Behind him, he felt Caper creep up to his left side. Sally on the right and behind them all, Jon, as he turned to face the pheromone controls. 

“And Jack?”

“Also, gone.”

Atlas glared at Eli. And then gestured to him. “You, boy. Come here. You look familiar.”

“I bet,” Eli snorted. 

“You look like Dewitt, doncha, boy?” Atlas leaned back to the door. “Hey! Get the lights back on!”

Diana strode through the door, looking bored. She peered at the young men. “These two are not the ones you’ve been watching.”

“Who are you?” Atlas demanded of them. 

Eli opened his palms and stepped farther into the room, creating a purposeful distance between himself and the Sisters. He felt Jon prickle behind him. “My name is Elijah Comstock.”

Atlas jerked, his whole head off-tilt for a moment. “Comstock,” he repeated.

“Comstock,” Elijah agreed.

Atlas looked over at Diana. She shrugged and smiled. “Interesting,” she said, coyly.

“What’s your relation to that little whore, Elizabeth Comstock?” Atlas said, pacing back in forth in front of the electric web fence.

Eli shrugged. “She’s an alternate version of myself.”

Diane lifted her eyebrows and took out a cigarette. 

“What the fuck does that mean?” Atlas asked, looking more curious now, academic, even. 

“It means I saw Elizabeth Comstock die twice _too,”_ Sally growled. 

That was when Atlas finally appeared to notice her. “Sally! Here we are, sweetheart. We meet again.”

Something boomed below and the lights flickered back on. 

“And is that Johnny Topside? Well, I’ll be goddamned,” Diana mused, peering through the glowing net. “How’s Doctor Lamb these days, Topside? Bet you wish you’d never found this place.”

Jon soaked the pheromone controls with electric gel and then used Incinerate to bomb it.

“So better today, with Ryan gone?” Atlas suggested and then sighed theatrically. “Now, why’d you have to go and do that, bucko.” He pointed at the controls. “You know how long that’ll take to fix?”

Atlas’ men opened fire on one of the crystal mounts. Eli clenched his fist. He _felt_ Devil’s Kiss race under the floor and jerked _up,_ bursting behind the thugs. It slammed them forward into the net.

Half the men dropped like stones. The other half opened fire. With the net down, the rest surged forward and Eli dashed forward to meet them. Flinging himself forward with Charge, burst with a ring of fire at his feet. It blasted into the splicers within range.

And then he saw Dewitt’s skyhook. He _reached_ with Telekinesis, reeling it in as he dodged two hook-wielding splicers and then Atlas was in front of him. The gangster slammed two fists into his face and chest, throwing Eli back onto the floor. 

Caper flashed by him, crashing into Atlas’ legs. Sally was a blur as she cut loose on the splicers. 

“You tell that little motherless freak that I got all kinds of strings I can pull and I’m gonna take him apart,” Atlas told him, diving at the younger boy.

Eli flipped himself up and blasted Atlas point-blank with a ball of liquid fire and then, suddenly thinking of Dewitt, switched to Murder of Crows. They burst around him, so loud and shrieking. And Atlas’ men that remained were distracted, panicked as the birds dove down, tearing and cawing. Eli took two steps forward and smashed his fist into Atlas’ face. His nose shattered. 

Behind them, Jon helped Sally blow out one of the walls. She grabbed a splicer, grinding his face into the torn metal seam. 

“When I’m done here, I’m gonna take that crazy brat and strangle her with a belt,” Atlas promised, spitting out a gob of blood. “But you gotta tell me, boy-o. How do you know Comstock? I saw her die. Twice. And here she is again. Now I’m gonna beat it out of you. Because if I can’t brain that little bitch one more time, I’ll at least scramble _someone_ today.”

_(”Now, we both know what happens next. Just get it over with.”)_

Fontaine was a New York City hardlined thug. And it showed. He fought a lot like Dewitt did. Like a bareknuckle brawler. His vast experience showed when he tackled Eli, knocking the breath from him. Every punch, every swinging whack with a lead pipe. Eli locked it in the skyhook and pressed the trigger. It flipped the pipe away and Atlas leapt back, using Cyclone Trap to punt the young man into the air. 

Caper swerved behind Atlas and suddenly Eli _saw_ a whisper of yellow-gold, a shade of Eleanor reached out and touched the Little Sister.

He hit the floor.

Fontaine had already turned away, opening fire at Jon and Sally. So Eli got up, smearing blood down his face and everything suddenly slowed down. He ran at Atlas, slamming _up_ into his spine with the skyhook, and planting his right fist into Atlas’ muscled side and blasting with a firebomb. It burst, flashing both of them with deadly flame. Atlas screamed, shooting blindly, cursing. Sally dashed forward and slammed her shoulder into Eli’s gut—knocking him out of the blazing flames and, in a smooth, graceful arc—she turned on a pin and slammed her gauntlets into Atlas. “Caper!” Sally snapped. “Bring me your injector.”

Atlas sputtered blood through his teeth. “Fuckin whore…you little bitch…” He glared down at the blades in his gut and chest and tried to step _back_ from them. 

Sally seemed all too happy to step with Atlas, keeping him snugly skewered. Caper came around the other side. Jon watched closely but circled them to check on Eli. And then he noticed Diana McClintlock was still standing by the door, leaning on the wall with her arms crossed. 

Sally took Caper’s injector after jerking out her right gauntlet. Atlas wheezed and then gurgled when Sally stabbed him in the gut. “I’m gonna get all your memories now, Atlas. I’m gonna read ‘em. And you’re not gonna control us anymore.” Incredibly, Atlas continued to struggle, cursing and bubbling up with blood.

Sally jerked the needle out. “Thanks, Atlas. You’ve been a real sport.” And then looked at Caper, gesturing down at Atlas. 

The younger girl nodded and slammed her armored fist into Atlas’ skull. His brains splattered. “One left,” she muttered.

“Tenenbaum,” Sally growled, clenching her fist. “But I want Doctor Lamb too. I want them all.”

Caper examined her like one might a puppy, so eager to run that it strangled itself. It all felt so heavy. But there was Jon, helping Eli stand up. He was burnt pretty badly but he steadied on his feet. It was easier to focus on that then the utter futility of everything they were doing. 

Diana stepped forward. “So, Ryan is dead. Atlas is dead. Now what are you going to do?”

Eli got to his feet. “All security has been disabled, all the nerve gas vents, all the bathyspheres and all the pheromone controls. Good luck. We just want to find our friends and get outta this shithole.”

“Your friends?” Diana asked. “If you want to kill Doctor Lamb, then you have to go to Persephone.”

“What’s your point?” Eli asked, tersely.

“Good luck, hot stuff. Be careful.” she said simply. “I’m going to try to get out of here. Right after I announce that Ryan and Atlas are dead and if you want out, get yourselves to the old Fontaine building.” Diana examined all of them and then turned away, walking out of Ryan’s office. 

Eli torched Atlas’ corpse.

 

 

 

Suchong came around very slowly. His glasses had been set aside, perhaps Booker’s one kindness while he waited for the Korean to come around. The man blinked owlishly at him before quickly scanning his location: a basement, somewhere. Damp and empty. “What is this?”

“Suchong, right?” Detective Dewitt asked instead, hitting record on his audio player. 

“You do not understand what you are doing, whoever you are. Do you know who I work for?”

“You know a little girl named Sally?”

“I do not know about one little white girl in Rapture. It won’t be the same for you when Mister Fontaine finds out who you are.”

“Sullivan, Ryan’s head of security, yeah? He came and told me that he found Sally, drowned in a gutter. And the more I think about it, Su, the more I suspect that he lied to me.”

“Of course he did. He lie to everyone.”

“So do you.” Detective Dewitt raised his hard eyebrows. “So let’s go ahead and get started, pal. I want information about the Little Sisters. And I want you to tell me the truth.”

Suchong glared at him, spitting at his feet. “I was prisoner of the Japanese. You do not scare me.”

Dewitt’s heavy green eyes narrowed and his smile turned crooked and dark. “Then it sounds like we have more in common than I thought.”

Amir felt a little chill go up his, then, twelve-year-old spine. He watched Detective Dewitt circle and question Suchong. Watched him beat the stuffing out of the scientist. For hours, the detective peppered him with questions, anecdotes, locations, names. Almost an entire day, just in constant motion. It was chilling to watch. It was a side of the Detective that Amir had never seen before. 

He was willing to go _this_ far just for _one_ of the Little Sisters. When he got a lead, he hammered at it. (Eleanor’s file was getting bigger all the time, right?—was there a chance that Suchong might know about her too?)

But after almost eighteen hours, Suchong had sung about a lot of things—but not the location of Little Sisters. In his frustration, Booker finally knocked him out. Amir and a former Little Sister named Tyla stood together, watching Dewitt finally untie the man. 

A few Little Sisters were watching from some vents. 

Booker sat down heavily in a chair. He shuddered, bowing his head. His knuckles were caked in blood and it was smattered in his stubble. Putting his forehead in his hand, he leaned in on his elbow

Amir and Tyla exchanged dark-eyed glances. “Dewitt?” Amir started softly.

The man nodded a little before he looked up. “Don’t become a monster like me, kids.” He took a deep breath and got up so he could stare down at Suchong. “Don’t become someone who finds violence to be easy.”

Tyla stepped forward, touching Dewitt’s elbow with her dark hand. When he looked down at her, she could only pat his arm and nod a little sadly. That led the detective to turn to both of the kids. “I’ll keep looking,” he promised, quietly, seeming unable to help but touch their shoulders. He wanted to help them so goddamn much…but he only knew how to hurt people and….

_I’m sorry, Anya. I’m a monster._

A monster….

“Anna….”

“Booker? Are you all right? Booker?”

His eyes managed to creep open. “Anna?” He murmured.

“Yes, it’s me. It’s Annabelle.”

That brought him back to earth instantly, shocking himself into awareness. Annabelle was kneeling over him, tending to his burns with her little pot of salve. Booker sat up and she put a hand on his arm to steady him. “You took some burns from Jon.”

Booker abruptly noticed that Annabelle wasn’t wearing her jacket or her button-up shirt. She had a chemise on, with thin straps and her trousers. Burns from the flamethrower had blistered her back and shoulders. “Where are the others?” He straightened up, trying to lean over her to check her burns. That made her go stone-still, keeping her gaze on the floor and not on him. Not on him when that incense-smoky spice, the scent of him—still the same, even after all this time—it wafted over her. It made her abdomen tighten, unconsciously. She tried to suppress it.

“I don’t know,” she answered quietly. “The hole we fell through has about four feet of ice over it. There was yelling earlier but then we hit the drains and now, we're probably all the way across Rapture, with our luck.”

“I’m sure Eli is all right. He’s smart.”

“He’s much smarter than me, definitely,” she agreed, chuckling a little, a slightly heightened edge to it. Repotting the salve, she handed Booker his shirt and pulled on what remained of her own. “I imagine Elizabeth is just as intelligent.”

“Yeah, sharp as a tack.” Booker sighed a little fondly before lighting up the area with a little ball of fire. “Looks like this is a maintenance area.”

“Luckily we fell into a flooded one. And then when I woke up, I was in a drain of some kind and you weren’t far away.” Annabelle had gathered their gear in a small, sodden heap in the mouth of the sewer drain. She started a small fire in a bucket. 

Booker watched her, the warm flames illuminating her face. She was tired, exhausted, covered in blood, silently worried about Eli. “They’ll probably head for Persephone if we don’t see them here.” 

“That would make sense,” she agreed. “We all know, at least, to meet there. Find Eleanor. Eli has a radio, so does Elizabeth and Jack and Amir. And I have one—though it needs a new case pretty desperately. I’m sure we can find something to get it back together. Or another to take somewhere.” She fidgeted with it.

“Annabelle,” Booker murmured, catching her eyes and holding them. “Get some rest for now.”

“I….” And then she cut herself off, looking at the floor. 

“I know….it’s hard to not just want to steamroll on. In that, I know how you feel. That…..”

“….suspended sense of panic,” Annabelle diagnosed, looking at her knees with a sad little smile. “He’s smart, he’s an adult, but he did say that Tears were getting harder and harder to find. And—“

“I know….” Booker quietly consoled, voice low and soothing. It was weird—but all the signs were there. This was Annabelle when she was a bit rattled, a little bit afraid, uncertain. She was cagey and pricklier, like he sometimes became. It was instinctive now that he recognized it, to step up. He knew, after all, exactly what she was going through. It was her son. Elizabeth was his daughter. And completely unintentionally, he was somewhat fond of Jack, Amir, Caper and even Sally and poor Jon. “We’ll find them,” was all he could offer, a carefully light touch on her arm and she sank a little. All the weight of all the worry, plus the ocean, always trying to get at them. Like the weight that bore him down, all the things he’d done. And the consequences. 

Annabelle leaned in just next to his shoulder. Her proximity let him lean back against the metal wall and put an arm around her. Nothing sexual about it, just...some sort of….comfort. 

And it was….something Annabelle had a hard time pinning down. Embracing Booker like she had the night her own Booker had admitted his desertion, comforting him, reassuring him that she would never abandon him. But also, letting down her guard a little. Very slowly, like a rock surfacing from sand. She let herself take a moment, holding onto him as tightly as she held him up. 

And then the _rush_ when he did the same, remembering the night he’d admitted to Annabelle what he’d done at Wounded Knee. The deep shame of it and how she embraced him sort of like this, tight and solid and he couldn’t seem to help it. His hands went to her back and one to her hair, gently combing through it with his fingers.

They both just silently breathed for a moment. They’d been through a lot and it was peeling open a lot of old wounds, the two of them suddenly being in the same reality. Not to mention everything else. She still smelled nice, like tea and cream. And part of him wanted nothing more than to move his hands over her, hold her in, slide down to her hips--Booker cursed himself, feeling that suffocating spike of shame and let her go. They eased back from each other. They were both cold so, for sake of warmth, they sat side by side, covered with a tarp. The bucket crackled with their happy little flame, eager to dance and cast its shadows and crescents around the room. Exhaustion overtook both of them eventually. 

Though a few hours later when she woke up, they were no longer sitting up. They were curled up on the floor like cats. Booker had somehow turned on his side, nose pressing against the back of her neck. One of his large, rough palms was curled up above her breasts, fingertips touching her throat. 

Annabelle took a deep, silent breath. How could she blame him, after all? She had clearly curled right up into him. She could feel his warmth permeating through his tattered clothes. The arm around her felt nice. Felt good. Warm and secure and how had she ever taken this for granted? Strange—it had been twenty years and yet….

_Eli is out there somewhere. Get up._

Something terrible and sad flooded up from her toes for just a moment. It was like a screaming kettle. No, just feeling sorry for herself, like a pathetic child.

_We will all eventually be alone._

She suppressed all the desire to shelter in him. It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right. She had no right to get any comfort from him. He had become his own worst enemy. It tore at her in places she hadn’t known existed, seeing how Booker had changed. How the events of Wounded Knee changed and, subsequently, changed him. Now he finally had someone, Elizabeth, who seemed suddenly certain she was going to die in Rapture. All her other selves had. 

How could she fucking lie here while Eli and her…her…sort of daughter were…could be dead? Jesus Christ, this is why Annabelle spent all her time alone. She was going to pieces down here all of a sudden. Running into this alternate-Booker had gotten under her skin. She had let it control her attention. _You’re a detective too, Belle. You fought, you died, you killed Comstock—just like them. Eli rang the sale….and I paid the debt._

_Get up. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Your son is out there. Get up._

Annabelle steeled her nerves over, steadying herself and clearing her mind. She carefully crawled away from Booker, ignoring the loss of heat and turning to cover him with the remains of her jacket. Suddenly, Annabelle was a little jittery, digging through her pack. She took out some weed to smoke and packed up. Everything hurt as she slowly tried to stretch out, muscles creaking. She was getting too old for this shit. Next time Eli saw visions of strange women, maybe they should skip out.

Booker was aware by the time she finished rolling and was up, silent and efficient as he prepared to move. He pulled his remaining gear and boots back on. “Is that breakfast?” Booker asked, nodding towards the joint with a crooked grin.

“Haven't seen much food just yet.” She offered it to him and so they shared it as they made their way through some kind of long supply or warehouse. At the end, a massive steel door folded up like great big teeth. Beyond it was….

“Is that a rail?” Booker wondered as he studied the gate and then knelt down. Annabelle did as well to help him and together they heaved up, until Annabelle could no longer reach and Booker held it high above her head. 

“Oh, why, thank you, sir,” she said, with a grandiose embellishment of her hand as she walked under the railing gate and turned to wait for him.

Booker let it fall, carefully. Still, it was _loud_ here. It _banged_ all the way down the…strange, snake-like hallways. “What the hell is this place?”

“Ryan Amusements?” Annabelle read from a wrecked sort of….pod ride thing. There was a corpse inside. “Ugh, the worse part about this place, you can’t even open a window. Who would ever want to come under the damn ocean,” she grumbled. 

“Tell me about it,” Booker grunted.

Somewhere ahead of them, something _shrieked._


	16. Relief or Regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music because, you know: You Belong to Me: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R2Ag-2ifNqk&index=69&list=PLQuOKHNudkmd8XwtZosj0WXzYWpuHjTxz&t=0s
> 
>  
> 
> \-----------------------------------  
> “No, Sally,” Jack snapped, pointing sharply at her. “We need Tenenbaum for now.”
> 
> Sally and Caper exchanged a silent, heavy glance before they both circled around them and away, going to the other Sisters. Sally showed them her gauntlets.  
> \-----------------------------------

“Welcome home, child, to the place where you were born.”

Jack opened his eyes up at the ceiling. Part of him felt numb. He didn’t know what to think or feel. His whole life, his whole identity. A lie. It washed away as easily as Ryan’s blood. 

Langford was sitting next to his cot. She had apparently gotten him some clean(er?) clothes and was wiping the blood off his hands with a rag. She glared at Tenebaum through the glass window of her office. 

“Hi Jack,” Masha said, a bit shyly. Appearing at his side like a sprite, she looked better, less grey, at least. She chewed on her lip a lot. 

Jack swallowed hard at the ceiling and then made himself sit up. Langford leaned in to assist him. “It’s good to see you’re still alive, Jack,” Langford said gently. “I’m honestly rather impressed.”

Lorna was sitting on the end of the bed. She poked his foot through the blanket a few times, watching him. 

Jack looked at his lap. “Did you know, Professor?”

“About….you being—no. I didn’t know.”

Tenebaum was a scarecrow of a woman, clothes a mess, hair a tangle of knots, eyes dark. She crept out of the office like a wraith, haunting into the exam room. 

Jack glared at her. “Have you no heart, eh?” He mimicked back at her. “You’re one to talk. You knew it was me. You _knew_ why I was there. And you let me go anyway.”

“Would you have believed me?”

Jack’s hackles came right up. “You must have known the trigger phrase. So yeah, I guess I woulda had to. But it was real convenient for you, wasn’t it? If I could just nip down there and kill Andrew Ryan for you, my own father. Real convenient for everyone. Except Ryan, of course. ”

Langford frowned in a thin line. “So he is dead, then.”

“I planted a rod of metal into his brain because he figured out your fucking trigger phrase,” Jack snapped at Tenenbaum. “So yeah, he’s dead. He ordered me to kill him, in fact. Would you _fucking_ kindly,” Jack recited viciously, eyes burning. It was hard to breath. “You sent us into all this. You brutalized all these children. You knew what Adam did to people’s minds and you fucking gave it to Fontaine anyway—“

“Jack,” Lorna said urgently, pulling on his arm.

“You and whoever that sick fuck Suchong is,” Jack seethed, getting up from the bed. 

Langford hopped up. “Jack? Jack, hey,” she said, voice calming and low, stepping into his line of sight.

Jack felt Langford touch his chest but all he could see was Tenenbaum. “You’re the ones who fucked up Jon Einarson, aren’t you? Children and innocent people and _now_ you’re claiming to feel bad?” Jack tried to take a step forward, physically forcing Langford to move with him. “I should _murder_ you for what you people have done to the children here. To me. To Elizabeth and Booker and Amir, Jesus Christ, you piece of shit.”

“Jack,” Langford insisted, trying to catch his gaze. 

Tenenbaum looked down. “It is what I deserve,” she agreed, voice quiet and choked. 

Jack was so angry he could hardly see. He was so furious, it bit into him so venomously, like a poisonous snake. He wanted to strangle her. He wanted to feel her choking, struggling, underneath his hands. Like she had seen and felt so many helpless children struggle and tortured them anyway. This bitch danced through World War two and Rapture without a scratch. How fucking ironic was that? Almost all of this went back to her and she was the only one who got to walk away? That was _bullshit!_

“You are a coward, a genius who used her talent to torment and hurt others. For curiosity’s sake. The only reason that I’m not going to beat you to death is that you helped the children here. And they’ve seen enough murder.” Jack hunted around and pulled some boots to himself, tying them savagely.

“While you sleep,” Tenenbaum murmured, “I undo Fontaine’s genetic conditioning. He should not be able to harm you.”

“Do you have my records?” Jack demanded. 

“I only have some,” Tenenbaum admitted, still not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Suchong had the rest. I wish to help you out of Rapture. You may get your revenge on Fontaine—“

“My _revenge?”_ Jack gaped at her, “You lied to me from the beginning too! You don’t get to fucking take the moral goddamn high ground—“

“Jack,” Masha said, pulling on his hand. 

He looked down at Lorna and Masha and closed his eyes. He shuddered. No family. No friends. No home. A science experiment who was sent to the surface to come back and be a puppet. What a fucking day. He turned away from the women. “Do you have a radio that I can have?”

“We do,” Tenenbaum affirmed. Her mournful gaze stayed on the floor.

Langford said, “Jack, you should rest. Contact the others with the radio—“

“No, they might be out of range. I have to find them. Atlas said he was going up to Ryan’s office to finish everyone off. He made Jon and Caper and Sally go crazy with some kind of reddish pheromone mist. I don’t know what happened to the others—but we were all planning to go to Persephone next.”

Tenenbaum chanced a glance up. “Why do you go to that place?”

“Eleanor Lamb. She reached out to us.”

“Sofia Lamb’s daughter,” Tenenbaum mused. “I will see if I have her records as well.”

Jack turned away from her, pushing up the sleeves to a ragged shirt and grabbing a medic satchel. He started pushing supplies into it. Radio, batteries, Pep Bars, a bottle of scotch—

Tenenbaum lingered awkwardly. She observed Jack for several moments of swaying silence. Finally, she managed, “Jack, will you please tell me how you came to find Caper.”

Jack closed his eyes like he was silently praying for patience, so this horrible rage wouldn’t bubble up and make him tear Tenenbaum’s throat out. He told her about meeting Booker, finding Caper, and then running into the kid again, removing her slug. “Where was the Dark House?” Jack asked in return.

Tenenbaum thought for a long time. “If it is the place where you learned to see a farm, then it is the Extraction and Induction chambers. That is where we….programmed the children to do their task. Gather Adam and so on. You were injected with massive amounts of Adam and quite literally genetically altered so you would answer to Fontaine. I changed this today and so you are free.”

“So that must be where I originally met Eleanor,” Jack mused. 

Tenenbaum watched his expression carefully. But she wasn’t combative, at all. Somehow, Jack had been expecting someone more like Andrew Ryan. But as the slender woman stood there with her dark, mournful eyes….

Jack turned away. “I have to get back there. The others could still be there. I have to know.”

Langford looked politely puzzled. “Which one is Eli?”

“Oh—right, we found new people and we ran into Subject Delta. Eli and Annabelle and Sally, another little sister. Eli and Annabelle are a mother-son team. Delta, we managed to contain with help from Eleanor Lamb and we got him out of that suit. He doesn’t talk much but he seems all right. Until Ryan used that pheromone stuff on him.”

“Well, Lamb likely made a knock-off of mine,” Langford said, airily waving a hand. “He’s been getting black tea this whole time and then Ryan switched it with southern Georgia sweet tea. Poor things, they never had a chance to resist my original formula. I had to create two different sets with that shitheel, Suchong. One for the splicers and one for the Little Sisters and Big Daddies—“ She cut herself off when Jack very noticeably grimaced at her. “It was poorly done, in retrospect,” she finished quietly.

Somewhere, something rumbled. The three of them looked up.

Masha and Lorna lit up at the same time. “Caper is near,” Masha said suddenly. 

“And a Big ol’ Daddy,” Lorna cried out. 

“Caper!” Jack exclaimed. “Show me?”

They both jumped up and Jack left the scientists behind. Hurrying to the door through Tenenbaum’s little hideout, Masha and Lorna turned the wheel-lock and Jack opened the door.

Caper startled at him on the other side. “Jack! Are you okay?”

He gave her a one-armed hug, more relieved than he could suddenly express. Jack took a deep breath against her tangled curly hair, looking at the others. “Shit, Eli? What happened? Did Atlas come for you?” He stepped in, meeting Jon’s eyes for just a moment before he helped Eli inside. 

Langford appeared. “Oh my god, what on earth—come in. Brigid, open up the surgery kit again.”

Several curious former Little Sisters peeked and peered at Sally, Jon and Eli as they entered the room. Jon relayed what had happened, in its entirety, robotic and methodical. His voice was low, even and emotionless as he retreated back into his own head. Eli tensed up, as if he thought one of them would take a swing at Jon, but no one did. 

Sally filled in any blanks, since she had taken in Atlas’ genetic memories and shared it with Caper. Eli had preferred to open Atlas’ Door instead. And Ryan’s Door as well, while Jon found the heat grate open and dust smeared about and disturbed. Caper confirmed the trail by scent. She could smell Jack, his pheromones. Eli was still ruminating on all he’d Seen but his more immediate concern was the difficulty in finding tears. They were all injured. Tenenbaum stepped towards Sally and the Sister hissed through her teeth.

“No, Sally,” Jack snapped, pointing sharply at her. “We need Tenenbaum for now.”

Sally and Caper exchanged a silent, heavy glance before they both circled around them and away, going to the other Sisters. Sally showed them her gauntlets. 

“So Amir and Elizabeth are probably still in Hephaestus somewhere and Booker fell through the floor.” Jack sighed at Jon. “You gotta teach me how you ripped up the floor with Gravity Well. Now, as far as—” 

“Jack,” Eli started.

“—Annabelle, she fell after Booker? Do you think—“

“Jack,” Eli repeated, louder. “What happened to Andrew Ryan?”

“Andrew Ryan is dead,” Tenenbaum spoke up. “He figured out the trigger phrase and commanded Jack to kill him.”

Jack froze, tensing up all over. 

Eli stared at him. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, after a moment. “He was your biological father, wasn’t he? I saw the board.”

Jack looked away, felt like he was jarring apart in different directions, _hated_ Eli for a moment. Jon clamped a hand down on his shoulder to steady him. That helped bring him back, ground him again. “What happened to Atlas?” Jack inquired quietly, instead.

Eli told him. 

Jack rubbed his forehead. “Sorry you had to deal with him—I couldn’t get into the room—“

“No,” Eli said quickly. “No, no—you had just—no. It was all right. We got it together. You, I mean, hell—you just had to kill Andrew Ryan. You've been through a lot today. Got a lot done.” Eli scratched his hair, awkwardly, feeling his ears heat up whenever he felt eyes on him. 

Jack suddenly chuckled. “Holy shit, you really are Booker’s kid, aren’t you?” He watched Eli stop cold, eyes getting big and surprised. It made him look incredibly young for a moment. “I, uh…..I’m sorry, by the way,” Jack continued, voice soft. His eyes lowered to the ground. “You all were right about me. Why was I on the plane? Why did the plane crash?” And suddenly, Jack wavered. “I brought the plane down. I remember doing it. I shot a steward and a pilot and I crashed the plane above the city. I _killed_ those people….” His eyes screwed shut and he rubbed them with his sleeve. “I was a slave.” He showed Eli his chains, shoulders curling in like a shell. “I murdered those people.”

The young man screwed his eyes shut, shaking with the misery of his part. On impulse, Eli reached forward, grabbing Jack’s wrist and _reached,_ opening his Doors.

There was no field of lighthouses or doors. There were just a few, hardly a dozen. Jack's existence was so..... _rare._ Much more so than his own. Fascinating. But the door that was most relevant to Eli's will, opened first:

 

 

Eli stood alone in a low-lit aquarium hallway. Tenenbaum and a man Eli somehow knew was Suchong came by, escorted by guards. They had, strapped to a gurney, a strange boy. Too tall, too thin, too strange—

The boy Jon saw with Eleanor. It really _had_ been Jack. Kept and caged, a science experiment, grown and bred to _obey!_

_(“A man chooses!”)_

He grew too fast, too gaunt, so strange. He didn’t talk much, quiet, morose. It was hard to think. The only thing he remembered with clarity was the first time he stepped into sunlight. The top of the ocean seemed like it must be like Everest and how _light_ he felt—

_(“You tell that motherless little freak—“)_

He felt it like a keen stab, the sense of _familiarity_ with Jack’s sudden aloneness. “You didn’t choose. They used you, yes. But you don’t have to stay here, Jack.”

“I don’t have anyone,” Jack murmured, looking at his hands. “I have no family, no home, no life. It was all a lie. I was a lie. I was lying and I didn’t even know it….”

“Yeah, you didn’t know. But now you do. So now you can take the wheel, right?” Eli suggested. “And you don’t have to stay here. I mean…we could…I mean, I could….take you to another reality. Or…something. Or come with us, I dunno.” He shrugged awkwardly. “Just, there are options.”

“Pays to be friends with a world-altering talent?” Jack managed a faint laugh.

“The odds are in your favor, buddy,” Eli said, pointing tired finger-guns at him. 

“Can I see this Tear that you are talking about?” Tenenbaum asked.

Eli and Jack shared a suspicious glance but the young man staggered up. “Okay…something easy. I don’t know how many other selves might have made it this far.” He looked around the exam room. “Okay, medical supplies.” Eli reached out a long-fingered hand, placing his palm in the air like he saw glass instead of nothing. 

Most of the Little Sisters had gathered around them, observing, whispering. 

Eli searched, reaching and feeling, looking into Door after Door to this room—there! The air shimmered in front of his hand and instantly, the hair on his arms rose up. He felt electrified as he widened the tear so they could see it.

Langford and Tenenbaum both got up, studying the gateway. Eli reached through it, Langford stopped herself from grabbing the boy, certain his fingers were about to get lobbed off. He stepped through it like a television screen. Eli grabbed the medical supplies and dumped a whole cart into the tear. 

It was harder coming back through, his eyes burned and he suddenly felt dizzy. The tear sucked the air in around him, making the tails of his open shirt beat against the wind and then it closed. Eli staggered and then righted himself, as Jack also reached out to steady him. “That’s a tear.”

Langford stood up to examine him. “Amazing...just like Elizabeth. And you heal wounds like she does? With the tears too, right?”

Tenenbaum stared at him. “How do you do this?”

Eli and Jack both glared at her. But it was Jon who got up. Tenenbaum stiffened instantly, tensing as if to flee. But Jon didn’t move closer. “No more. No more experimenting on people. Children or adults. No more. One will be how you start, how you all _started_ but that’s never where it ends, is it?”

Tenenbaum’s shoulders curled in. “I--it is only that, I managed to lead Doctor Porter here—he is a Big Daddy for now. But if you can replace genetic material from parallel realities then you could cure the splicers and the Little Sisters without a plasmid.”

Eli blinked, swiftly exchanging looks with Jack and then with Jon, who looked oddly surprised too.

“Where is he?” Jon asked, eyes suddenly glazing over. He just...deadened himself to emotion inside. So maybe he wouldn't be disappointed....

They followed Langford into another exam chamber. Jon entered first, approached a man who seemed frozen, like armor were being built around him. His helm was removed but most of his body armor remained. He was a dark-skinned, middle-aged man.

“He was the one you told us about, that also told Doctor Lamb to piss off, right?” Jack inquired, crossing his arms and circling the metal suit.

Langford nodded, hands on her hips. “Yes, Doctor Porter is the brain behind Minerva’s Den, Rapture’s computer hub. If anyone can get us out of Rapture, it’s him. But we had to keep him sedated while Brigid attempted some gene editing but, of course, it’s very difficult to do all those calculations—“

“I see,” Eli said, raising a hand. “Let’s get him out of the armor. I can melt this.” Eli stiffened two fingers on his hand and a whirling coil of liquid fire swirled and spun like a cuff.

“That’s not Incinerate—what is that?” Tenenbaum asked.

“This is Devil’s Kiss, my reality’s _version_ of Incinerate.”

Jack watched the other boy curl it like a whip, amazing. It was more precise than Incinerate, though it packed a lesser initial punch. Eli could heat up liquid fire bands, like a burning hula-hoop. And he gently set it into the armor and let it melt like butter. He was clearly adept, just sort of awkward with everyone else. But he was tough and he was steady in a fight. Though he was less reckless than Jack had somehow expected, being Dewitt’s son. But it seemed he’d grown up totally isolated, like Elizabeth had. Eli had stormy summer-green eyes and dark hair that was longish, most of it held back with a rubber band. He had a healthy five o’clock shadow now, it actually made him look older than nineteen. Especially since he was covered in grime, oil and blood. Eli seemed to ignore it as he and Jack disassembled the suit around Doctor Porter.

Tenenbaum approached with a hypo of Eve. "This contains a sample of Doctor Porter's DNA. The Eve stabilizes the imprint and mimics it, unlike the Adam, which mimics the base tissue." 

Eli looked over Doctor Porter. He was going to have to look in his Doors, to at least…before he’d become a Big Daddy. That didn’t seem to have been too long ago, fortunately. Though he'd never tried healing someone who wasn't Annabelle....

“What is this you wait for? An invitation?” Tenenbaum finally said impatiently, offering out the hypo again.

“Shut up,” Jack growled at her. “You just shut the hell up. He’s gotta do his thing. So shut up.”

Tenenbaum visibly recoiled, shoulders curling in on herself again. 

“Okay, okay,” Langford said, looking between the two of them. “We’ve all had a long couple weeks with lots to complain about. It’s all right.”

Eli took the hypo and injected it. The awareness of the Eve and the doctor's DNA was a strange little twinge in his head. He was surprised, and relieved, that he seemed able to sense it, feel it, reach _through_ it. Eli opened the Doctor's Doors, felt sadness and loneliness and regret but he did not linger in his Door. Eli found his body when it was whole and tried to tune out all the stories that wanted to tell themselves to him, to cram inside his mind. And like he did for Annabelle, he replaced Porter’s genetic make-up. Just like that, snap of the fingers, and a _flexing_ of will.

Eli peered over at Tenenbaum. “I need you to tell me what the genetic structure of Adam is and what, exactly, it does to human cells.”

 

 

Caper was sitting in the other exam room, perched on a countertop while some of the Little Sisters watched. Caper clenched her fist. It had turned black. “Mister D had this one. Whirly murder birds. I had to heal him. I was afraid he would die. This one doesn’t exist in our Rapture. Murder of Crows.”

Porter looked at her for a long moment and then jerked awake. “Where am I?”

“Olympus Heights. Can you help my suit?”

 

 

 

Amir felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Like a flashback in his own body, the scent of sulfur and blood. Hephaestus often buzzed, over-saturated with all the power flowing through it and not as many outlets as it needed. But Amir was used to that, he’d been sneaking in and out of various Rapture sectors since he was a little boy. 

That wasn’t what he felt. Amir stepped back into shadows, disappearing into the fabric of a hallway. For a long moment, nothing happened. But he still hesitated. The air, the current, something just felt…. _strange._

And then there was a flash of light, a burst of cold sea water slammed into the catwalk and a person tumbled out onto the grating. The light vanished. Amir full-stopped, mouth agape. What the shit? Not the Houdini plasmid, that one had the red mist from the blood-tearing. Not Camouflage, you couldn't use that while in motion and it left a different light trail. 

And suddenly, he was twelve again, watching in stunned horror as a man with dark eyes and white hair stepped out of the light and _stabbed—_

The boy from the light threw up a stomachful of sea water, trying to look around even as he gasped for breath. The boy’s hair was dark and shaggy and soaked with salt water. The young man got up, shaking himself out like a wet dog before seeming to instinctively step out of the light. He cursed to himself softly and headed down into the Workshops. He didn’t move like he knew where he was going, precisely; it was more like someone who was accustomed to sneaking around and knew he needed to stay on the move while he tried find….or do….whatever had brought him here. It was exactly how Amir had taught other kids to move around Rapture, if they were forced into the open.

Curious now, Amir followed him from a distance, a shadow in the dark. 

The guy showed no hesitation when he was ambushed by splicers. All his caution faded and he just tore them apart. Either with that fire plasmid that really didn’t look much like Incinerate—it handled completely different—or with his fists. The guy was strong, definitely competent, clearly accustomed to combat. He broke a splicer’s jaw with the wooden staff of a broken push broom. And used the same method to slam the butt of his broom into a woman’s throat, flipping around them, fast and agile. Amir, while he hadn’t decided what he thought of the boy yet, he could admit that he was quick and quiet. He did no posturing, no yelling, nothing. The young man was silent and efficient. He slipped away from a Big Daddy, and slid into a communications room, no doubt to look for a radio.

Amir took the opportunity to follow, suddenly whisking inside with his hands raised, shutting the door with his heel.

The young man had whirled around instantly, pistol raised in his right hand and a length of metal pipe in the other. His dark eyes searched Amir’s open palms.

“I’m not a splicer, I don’t want to fight if we don’t have to,” Amir said, watching the young man carefully. 

The stranger peered at him and then slowly lowered his weapons. 

“Who are you?” Amir said quietly. “I just saw you fall onto the catwalk.”

The young man sighed softly from the corner of his mouth. “My, uh, my name is Elijah.”

“How did you do that? That light? Sea water came in with you, so you were in the ocean somehow?”

“It’s a plasmid I made,” the boy said, a bit stiffly, almost robotic.

“What’s it called?”

The boy looked at his hands for a second and then quietly said: “Tear.”

Like his skin when it met the glass windows and then the horrible bees, stinging and stinging and dying in droves around him, stinging and stinging and then—

 

 

Amir jerked a little, just a subtle tensing as he woke. His hands came up automatically, touching his chest as if to make sure he was still alive. 

“Amir?” Elizabeth’s voice cut through the dark as she opened up the grating to a boiler. The light cut through the dark as well. The young woman whispered up to him, sitting next to him on the couch. “How do you feel?” She asked him, reaching up to touch his forehead.

“Kinda like I got hit by a truck,” he said, managing a half-smile. He unconsciously tensed when she actually did touch his hairline. 

“I imagine,” she agreed, chuckling at him. “I got the bee stings out of you but Jon sure did hit you hard.” 

“Were you hurt?” Amir asked, pushing himself up and somehow not expecting it when she reached out to brace his shoulder and assist him. It left him feeling strange, a bit unsettled at her proximity. Her overlarge shirt was ripped down the side. It matched his own, in a way, as the glass had shredded his own shirt. It was heavily splotched with blood and tears. 

But he could also see the smooth, pale curve of her waist, glowing warm and gold in the light of the boiler. Amir shook himself, rubbing his eyes as he sat up.

Elizabeth perched next to him, wiping down his forehead with a cool rag. “No. I’m fine. Everything went to hell so fast, ha. All our preparing was for nothing. I guess you can’t stop timelines.”

Amir’s dark eyes flickered up to her. Elizabeth stared passed him somewhere, eyes distant and pensive. Absently, she wiped the cool cloth down his throat and over his collarbones and then farther when she noticed his tattoo. “So that’s your mark?”

“Yes, Sagittarius was my….classification. We were spliced to be hunters, I guess. Killers or something. Eyesight in the dark, Houdini plasmids—things like that.” Amir trailed off a little awkwardly as she openly examined him. The swipes from the cool cloth were distracting. She touched his skin, studying the warm brown shade against her own pale flesh. It was entirely unintentional that she glanced up and caught him looking. The two of them shifted a bit, uncomfortable quite suddenly. 

Elizabeth twisted her thimble. “I’m sorry, I’m not very good at small talk.”

“You’re fine. I’m just…not used to being around other people, I guess.”

“Me neither. I’ve never really known anyone my own age. Booker is my only friend. So being around you, Jon, Jack and Eli and even Sally and Caper….it’s….really different.”

“Intense personalities,” Amir agreed, somewhat vaguely. “Sorry you had to patch me up. I mean—uh—because I—“

“Oh, it’s nothing. I’ve had to patch Booker up more than once. So no worries. Shirtless is better than dead.”

Well, Amir couldn’t argue with that. “I guess we don’t really…no one here has…no one gets to know each other well, I guess. Because….people die a lot. Sometimes you can bring them back with the Vita-Chambers. Sometimes that changes them a little. Rebuilding the genetic makeup of an entire body…I mean, it’s genetics, I guess. So every once in a while…”

“….something changes?” Elizabeth suggested.

“Comstock, for example. This guy who was a genetic copy of Dewitt. He had blue eyes. Booker has green eyes. Eli has green eyes but you have blue eyes.” 

“So somewhere, there’s a girl with pretty green eyes,” Elizabeth said, mock-calculating. “Jealous.”

That made Amir snort on a chuckle.

“What do you think of Annabelle?” 

Amir’s studied her for a world-turning moment. “I understand that she is your alternate-mother, which must both be very difficult but also strange, weird. My father killed my mother and so that is all I have to compare with your situation. Annabelle is…good, I think. I believe there are things that she regrets but she is honest. And she loves her son. She threatened to shoot me when she met me.” That seemed to make the Pakistani guy smile a little. “She attempted to joke and bluster during and after she was scolding Eli—and him a foot and a half taller than her. He endures her telling him off with a good-natured sort of shrug. She wasn’t mad, not really. Just worried about him. Sort of like my mother used to do when I was little.”

“Like Booker does.”

And suddenly Amir glanced away quickly to hide his expression in his arm. “Yes, very much so.” And then surfaced. “Right, so—where are we? If we can find a vent, I can get us back upstairs.”

“There was a fight earlier,” Elizabeth said, looking up at the ceiling. “I heard gunfire and yells. But it’s been silent for over an hour. Whatever happened, the pheromone vents have all shut down. And—”

Suddenly the PA system beeped, loud and shrill among the heavy, damp pipes:

_”Rapture, this is Diane Locke. Ryan is dead. Atlas is dead. The pipes are shut down, no more dreammist, bathyspheres are now unlocked. If you got enough sense to addle together—get to the Fontaine Futuristics building.”_

“Well, that answers that,” Elizabeth said quietly.

“Goddammit,” Amir scowled. “God-fucking dammit.”

“What?” Elizabeth exclaimed, surprised.

Amir scowled. “I just wanted to see it. I wanted to _do_ it.” He raised his hands, clenching his scarred fists. He was shaking, the rage just flooded into him. It was hard to breath. “I hope they at least burned them both. Goddammit…” Amir drug his hands into his hair and bowed his head. 

Elizabeth was alarmed at how he derailed, how deeply he hated Ryan. Or maybe hated himself. (Like Booker did. It ached in the same place.) She touched his shoulder. “Amir…you have done so much for the children of Rapture. That’s not nothing.”

“I want _justice_ for them. Not empty promises!” Amir snapped and then he made himself pull back. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice stiff as he closed his eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s not you. It’s just this place.”

“Amir,” Elizabeth said softly, kneeling beside him on the floor and touching his shoulder. “I don’t know a whole lot about Rapture and I can’t imagine the horrors you have suffered…but what I do know as certain as…as water is wet…is that Eleanor wants you to live. She thought you were dead, I think. She wants you to live. And we’ve all thrown in to find her. You haven’t failed, Amir.” And Elizabeth gave him a gentle smile. “You just called for back-up.” She pointed exhausted fingerguns at him.

That made Amir crack a smile. It allowed him to bow his head, let a trembling shake shudder through him like an anxious earthquake. Elizabeth sat beside, listening to him steady his breathing. He wiped his eyes roughly and got himself standing, suddenly looking self-conscious. “Do you think they’ll head for the Fontaine building?” 

Elizabeth gave him a reassuring smile. The poor young man, in all things—he seemed to expect only the worst outcome. It just…she just felt for him. Or something. “No. I think they’ll head for Persephone.”

“Why?” Amir asked softly.

She chuckled. “Because that’s what we’re doing, right?”

When he smiled, it changed the sober cut to his face. It made his dark eye glitter like stars. She could feel his hesitation to trust her. Even for just a small bit comfort. He was so guarded, so wound up. Taut as a guitar string. She wanted to _help_ him, somehow. But for now, all she could do was try to find tears, mix-up some sleep darts and keep her Peeping eyes on so they wouldn’t get jumped. And tried to figure out how to be his friend.

If nothing else, she’d get him to Eleanor if it killed her.

 

 

_See the Pyramids along the Nile_  
_Watch the sunrise from a tropic isle_  
_Just remember, darling all the while_  
_You belong to me….._

Doctor Lamb’s breathing was labored, loud over the music on the radio, though she had not exerted herself. She stared down at her limp daughter and contemplated on what she had just heard. Atlas and Ryan, both dead. Presumably at the hands of this boy, Jack—apparently, Ryan’s genetic son. And now Diane Locke invited all of Rapture to come to the Fontaine building and come up with a way to the surface? And lose all of her specimen? All her samples, all her minds, all her Sisters, all her _Adam._

Yes, Delta was out searching but that wasn’t enough. That wasn’t sufficient. There wasn’t _time_ for him to search all of Rapture for a couple of frivolous teenagers (despite their obvious intelligence, they were all controlled by the base instincts which kept them from being selfless. An entitled couple of children for her to bring a hand to, if she could get ahold of them).

And now she very much wanted to get ahold of them. For Eleanor. For Eleanor. That talent, that fierce intelligence, the determination—all traits with which to bestow her vessel. 

Her little lamb. 

“Sophie had a little lamb,” she murmured, selecting another vial of glowing Adam, refined from all the blood and bile of the Little Sisters, of course. “Little lamb, little lamb…..” She capped the hypo and ran out the air bubbles. “Her mind as white as snow….” 

Injection. It flooded into Eleanor, who instantly saw every genetic memory up until the point of extraction. 

Eleanor breathed.

Multiple dimensions and perspectives on everything she learned from each sample. Good and bad. Lamb had attempted some gene editing—but wasn’t as confident as Tenenbaum. While all the binary Ons and Offs of Eleanor’s DNA were constantly shifting—she had to be directed to will the best, strongest, healthiest traits to overtake all others. 

Her mother unintentionally taught her to control her splicing shifts and now Eleanor practiced controlling her brainwaves. Even as she was overwhelmed with the sudden blast of information. New knowledge was always so….strange. The manner by which Eleanor _learned_ from Adam—there was the scientific process of it, of course—but Eleanor was more often hit by the waves of knowledge, moving in on her like an ocean tide. Layer by layer, it built up and up. Until she understood the knowledge to whatever degree the Sample had. 

Languages always had the most layers. Because language was partially sub-conscious, people reveal a great deal about themselves depending on the words they use. Traditions were passed via written and verbal storytelling. Archetypes of personalities and characters were established this way. Turns of phrase are innately understood by native speakers of a language, but literally-translated, it will sound like nonsense.

(The boy built himself in front of her in the Otherworld. His glittering green eyes and sparkling hook weapon. Eleanor had seen Elizabeth and sought her out, but the boy—Eli? He kept looking for _her.)_

The sample knew itself to be Avery Jackson, an architect from Munich, Germany. He was forty-five years old at the time of Adam extraction. He spoke five languages (the Belgium trio, English and Turkish), had four children and a lovely wife. All dead now. 

_”Andrew Ryan and Atlas are dead.”_

All her little eyes and ears around Rapture heard it. All of them suddenly uncertain as the pheromones began to clear from the hazy air. The vents rumbled as they all shut down. 

Doctor Lamb, her mother, was still sitting like a statue next to her bed. Her knuckles were white with fury, teeth clamped as a young man _(Jack)_ flickered onto the security screens. 

”Go ahead and get your eye on us, Lamb. Because you’re about to get what you want. I’m coming to Persephone for an appointment."

Lamb’s sharp nose rose up like a bird’s beak. 

”Also, this is your only chance to surrender, cause once we get to you, we won’t stop until we get to Eleanor.”

And then, Lamb suddenly relaxed, breathing slow and deep. “Such excitable young men, are they not, Eleanor? So ready to prove themselves, to fight and bleed and destroy, just like the lowest of our species, obsessed only with what you can hit with a brick.”

Lamb got up, pacing around the room before she walked over to her work table that beheld her PA microphone. 

“I understand your pain, Jack. You mourn the loss of identity, of father, of self. You were bred with pure instinct, but with malice. I can help you, Jack. I can bring you back to your most human self. Your purest intent, your strength—you can finally do some good in the world.”

“Eh, fuck you.” Jack returned lazily. 

“You do not have to go to waste, Jack. You were created with the best technology Rapture had to offer. You have been given such an incredible gift. No learned bias, highly intelligent, an absolute upholding of your sense of justice. You could be so much more than Fontaine’s little toy soldier.”

Someone offscreen said: ”Jack, she’s clearly a waste of time, buddy. We’ll meet up with her pretty soon. Let’s go.”

Jack looked back at the camera feed. “Catch you down below, Doc.” 

The screen went black.

Behind her, leaning in the doorway, Sinclair chuckled. "Well. You've done it now, doc. I do believe they've thrown the gauntlet."


	17. Parent Trap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To you, Anya  
> Music:  
> The Way to Hel: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DD65K4VR6Lw&index=66&t=0s&list=PLQuOKHNudkmd8XwtZosj0WXzYWpuHjTxz
> 
> \-------------------------------------  
> Annabelle smiled faintly. “They think we’re getting too old, eh? Just wait til we see them. They’re all grounded.”
> 
> Booker grinned, allowing a low, rumbling laugh in his chest. 
> 
> \-------------------------------------
> 
> Past!Annabelle/Booker
> 
> \---------------------------------------

The night Booker returned to her was a cold one, barely two months into 1891. A thick blizzard had blanketed the city in silence. She had stayed behind in New York while he went to South Dakota, where he’d been chosen for Cavalry because he was such an excellent horseman. And she heard from him once a month, generally. He wrote her long letters, describing the countryside in details, writing about all the men with him on the road. She knew them all by association. 

The exasperating Slate, who was a little too gung-ho, in her husband’s opinion. But, he was a good man to have at your back in a fight and he had a ridiculously impressive moustache. He was also twice Booker’s age, at least around forty but he still railed and killed like the younger men. He seemed to have taken a shine to Booker, at first. Taylor, a poor boy from Indiana, whom Booker described teaching to roll his own tobacco. Perkins, from Vermont, had made them some real maple syrup candies in the snow. He wrote about his horse, Lantern, and how he liked running on the flatlands. 

And in return, she would spend a week, usually, writing a long letter back. It was so hard, trying to encourage him when she couldn’t be there to help him. Annabelle agonized about her own helplessness. His letters got predictably shorter the longer he was gone. She tried to tell him little stories or jokes, she sent newspaper clippings, articles from magazines, anything. 

In the meantime, she managed their little flat and unpacked Booker’s chest. His maps and his leather packet that held his spare bullet molds (his father had insisted he learn how to make them himself), a rifle, carefully disassembled and packed in a case. His one suit, formal black and only worn once. He had a few mementos of his older brother and one of his mother. Otherwise, he owned very little. Still, when she found a quilt in the bottom, she drew it out immediately. It smelled warm. God, she missed him. 

Then the letters stopped. It was likely difficult to find a post office out on the prairie lands. Most of it wasn’t developed. It was likely just difficult to find a post. She wore a track in their flat from the window to the door.

She hadn’t heard from him in four months when the door suddenly rattled. Annabelle whipped around, wrapped in a blanket and standing near the wood-stove. The door swept open and a dark shadow stomped in, covered head to foot in snow. 

Annabelle took the pistol from her apron. 

“Belle?” The snowman croaked.

Her heart arrested, knowing that voice anywhere. She hurried to him, stopped short of the snow—but he was already fighting his wool overcoat off. 

“Booker, oh—you made it back—I—why didn’t you write! I was so worried! Are you all right?!” She finally got her hands into his overcoat as he shrugged it off. She unbuttoned the second layer. “It’s almost driven with ice. Are your hands frostbitten?”

“No,” he managed, pulling off his mittens and starting when he felt her touch through his last shirt. 

She couldn’t seem to help but slide her hands over him, as if to check for injury, then loosening the laces on his shirt instead.

“Annabelle…”

“I have missed you so much,” she blurted out and slid her hands under his shirt to embrace him. Like she could squeeze him down small if she hugged him tightly enough. “You’re so cold,” she fretted, taking his hands in her own and bringing them to her breasts. She breathed on his fingertips, rubbing the blood back into his hands. He sat down heavily when she led him to the kitchen table, but he gently freed his fingers from her, placing them on her hips instead. She stood in front of him and he pulled her closer between his knees. At first, he didn’t do anything, just leaning into her and inhaling her scent into his nose again. He _felt_ her shudder in response, she was humming with energy, eyes wide and dark. 

He should tell her first, he should really fucking tell her first—

But then she kissed him, straddling one of his hardened thighs and leaning down to him. Her fingers went right into his hair, combing through the shaggy mess and curling into them, pulling the strands. She heard him breath, shoulders hunching up, grip tight and hot on her hips. And then one hand went up to her breast and he made a rough sound, and ducked into her throat. That sound he made, that raw groan in his throat—oh, that was the thing. Caught fire in her ears.

He drug his hands up her back and then to her breasts again, pulling her blanket off, unwinding the shawl. Underneath, she wore a simple button-up shirt and long skirt. Booker got to work and now that he’d started, he wasn’t sure he could stop, wasn’t sure he wanted to. He should. He really should but he was already pulling her shirt from her belt and bending her to him so he could peel it off, layer by layer. The shirt, the belt, open the skirt, go back to the corset (she was helping with that) and picking her right up. Booker set her on her feet and pushed the skirt away. He was forgetting everything else. The consuming awareness of her was now as stark as her consuming absence had been on the road. Her eyes were hot blue fire and she was eager for him. Hot and eager and wanting him so _badly,_ he could smell it. Or maybe it was just him. He almost walked into the linen closet before he recalled that the bedroom was on the other side of the hallway. It was hard to concentrate because she just was so….she was so…heated. Annabelle seemed unwilling to let him go—so he carried her. Wrapping her warm thighs around his waist and it was like a punch in the gut, how his cock suddenly twitched _hard,_ throbbing through him. His grip tightened and he had to strangle a shuddery breath in his throat.

The bedroom was dark and cold, he ignored it as he staggered in and pushed her up against the wall. She bit at his throat, and then he grabbed her, shoved her onto the bed. She yanked him down to her, reaching for his cock. And _shit,_ her fingers were _slick_ as she slid them over him, working him.

“Belle,” he warned softly, a shudder racking up through him.

“Mmm?” 

“It’s hard to…to be….I mean, I don’t want to hurt you—“

“Do it, Booker….” Her grip tightened and she rolled her hips against him. 

The sergeant’s restraint frayed away as he shoved her down, spreading her thighs completely open, baring her to him and thrusting into her, rough and deep. She cried out, spine arching in a hoarse moan and grabbing into his shoulders. His hips pounded into her, pinning her down, penetrating as deeply as he could, and grinding into her. Listening to her moan, her gasps and sighs, her fingernails in his hair. He worked her nipples with his own fingers. Capturing her mouth for his own, Booker loomed over her, dominating and rough as they both were quickly overcome. Again and again and _again—_

 

 

Booker could now recall three different versions of that event, coming home after Wounded Knee. Comstock had not married his Annabelle until he returned. He had not even gotten to know her until he got back. And by then, he had assumed a new name. He buried his deeds. 

Contemplating a woman, but not Annabelle Watson. It was Rosalind Lutece that he had met on the road as the wandering preacher, Zachary Comstock. Both heading to New York City, both clever and sarcastic, both motivated, passionate, driven. Her work was incredible. 

Booker had not become a preacher but a Pinkerton and so had never come across either Lutece. He returned to his young wife and within a year, she was pregnant. He admitted that first night he returned that he had either butchered innocent people at Wounded Knee, or that he had run rather than participate in the massacre, defying his military command and, by extension, the government. 

No matter which, she stayed with him. 

He also remembered her three deaths. Anya, Annabelle, Lady Comstock. Anya met her end with her shoulders squared and her eyes sharp and clear. She and Dewitt had plotted together, freed some other prisoners and had made it into the jungle. But as luck would have it—a patrol came upon them when they reached the beach. They were caught in the open, Dewitt staggering with a spear wound he’d taken to the thigh. He’d tried to pull Anya behind him but she sidestepped his hand. 

“It is now or never,” Anya said in her low, Russian-accented English. _Buy time for the others._

The two of them met eyes and in silent agreement, attacked. They managed to kill seven of the Japanese soldiers until another unit from the Compound appeared, likely in pursuit. Anya took a bullet to her knee and was promptly swamped. The soldiers wrangled the two of them, Booker knew what that meant. They were going to die. Or, at least, he was. 

Nothing else processed except the soldiers _grabbing_ Anya, putting her on her knees and pointing guns at her head. He flooded up with rage, splitting and struggling until one of them smashed him in the face with a rock. Their ankles and knees were tied.

Booker glanced sidelong at Anya, wiping blood from his eye with his shoulder, her frown was sober and suspicious. The sergeants and corporals or whatever the Japanese equivalent was, just secured them. But they weren’t taking them back to the base?

And then a jeep rounded the bend and the Captain arrived. He spoke no English and did not even look at Dewitt or Anya. They told him what had occurred over long staccato sentences that Booker only understood smatterings of (bathroom, water, fuck you, Russian snake, American scum and sake). 

“Women make men act foolish,” the lieutenant, the only one who spoke any English, told them. “The two of you killed many of our people. You try to cause chaos. For this, you will die. Prisoners are easy to acquire.”

“Yes, invite some more Russians. If you think I’m bad, wait until you meet the men,” Anya sniffed.

“Mine won’t tell you shit either,” Sergeant Dewitt growled, pressing his palm over the blood-soaked hole in his thigh. 

“Luckily for you, Sergeant, the Captain believes that you will still tell us information, as your comrades already have.”

“You might as well just kill me now, asshole,” Dewitt challenged, looking him right in the eye, glaring.

“I do not think so,” said the lieutenant, glancing at the Captain. At his answering nod, the officer turned smartly and drew his saber. He pointed at Anya. “Up.”

The other soldiers hassled her to her feet, forcing her away from Dewitt. “What are you doing!? Hey! Goddammit! I was the one that got us out!” Two men grabbed onto his shoulders to hold him in place.

Anya refused to lower her gaze from the men until someone hit her bullet-shattered knee with the stock of his rifle. They shoved her down to her knees again, facing Dewitt this time, about ten feet from him. And then everything seemed to slow down. Everything felt surreal. 

This was it. Death. Anya heard herself breath. 

Another man had to grab onto Dewitt but he never felt it. Just saw Anya shove herself up so she could glare blue fire into the lieutenant’s face when he bowed short and stiff to her before sweeping his saber up—

She looked to the American as the blade came down, met his dark jade eyes—

Dewitt screamed, yelled something, roaring and fighting. They had to drag him back to the camp. His rage blocked out everything else. When he came to, he was strapped down in a medical wing. After he healed, it was down into the dark, where interrogation subjects were solitarily confined, each to a tiny cell, alone. 

His own Annabelle, twisting and writhing, red-eyed, blood everywhere. She was sobbing, struggling to hold on, hating her own perceived worthlessness, hating the weakness of her body as a last groan seemed to split right through her. Booker held her hand as the midwife got the child. He folded her cool fingers in his own, pressing her palm to his forehead as he wept. The only good thing in his life. The only person who meant more to him than anything. How could he have taken her for granted? He had ruined her. Killed her. He’d killed her. He was so fucking _weak_

And Lady Comstock, realizing she _knew_ and realizing she would not stay silent. The decision was instant, sharp, and instinctive. He got up, ten inches higher than her, grabbed her by her dressing gown when she tried to bolt. He jerked her back in. She managed one scream before his hands clamped onto her throat. Her slender throat, Comstock cut off her air, watched her go teary and desperate, watching her go dark. (Interestingly, the Comstock who went to Rapture had _not_ murdered Lady Comstock because, of course, that baby had been decapitated. He had bailed on his Columbia, so Booker idly had to wonder if Lady Comstock came to control that one.)

It made him feel sick when he thought of Comstock killing her. Knowing that he was entirely capable…

 

 

Booker shook himself from his thoughts, watching Annabelle slip down the hall. Or rather, watching a….spirit. The plasmid was called Scout, Annabelle had found it in a ticket booth. The two could stay in one spot, Booker kept watch and Annabelle closed her eyes, projecting her mind into Rapture to see what lay ahead and behind and above and below. 

It took an extensive amount of Salts but she didn’t complain. Booker stood guard so she could focus. When she settled back into her own body, she shuddered hard, breathing stilted. Booker watched her carefully. “You all right? Just rest for a second.” 

“It’s all right. Just gotta get used to it,” Annabelle nodded, closing her eyes to sift back into her mind. “It feels weird, like a….like spirit walking or something.” The woman pushed herself to her feet, goggles up in her hair and her face grimy with dirt and blood. “That one and the Peeping Eyes or whatever—would have been useful in Columbia.”

“Right?” Booker grumbled. “Speaking of—you threw ice during that fight, didn’t you? Jack uses Winter Blast, was that what that was?”

“Oh no, actually—that was Old Man Winter. I found it in a bathysphere down near Minerva’s Den, I guess they had overheating problems. It’s dry ice though—so it doesn’t melt as well. But it’s drinkable, like Vigors—which is strange compared to all the others here.” Annabelle switched to it and let him see how it shielded her fist in rippling ice and turned her fingernails sparkling blue. Her whole hand went numb, then burned all the nerves like liquid frostbite. Like her hand had been dipped in an armor of cold dark steel. 

Booker suddenly stopped short, reaching for her shoulder—though she instinctively froze at his abrupt halt. Then there were yells and gunfire. Annabelle switched to Undertow and grabbed Booker’s sleeve. “This way!” She said, sprinting into the nearest exhibit and ducking onto the set of some kind of laboratory. 

“We can’t defend this stage—“

“We’re not,” Annabelle told him and pulled him into the back corner. She closed her eyes to focus again, drawing a flood of water to herself with Undertow. She drew in and then slammed her fists down, directing her will.

Booker watched a wall of water form in front of them and he instinctively jumped. “Whoa, it’s like a mirror…”

It was the stillness of glass, Booker saw himself and her perfectly. He could see blurred ripples of gunfire and screaming as the splicers came hunting for them. When a few ran by the stage, they didn’t even seem to see the two of them.

Annabelle waited for them to walk away before she breathed again. “This is how Eli and I get around things like cameras.”

“Smoke and mirrors,” Booker concluded, nodding. 

“Yes, because of how cameras take in light—the wall of water makes us almost invisible.”

“So that’s how you got around Columbia?”

“Yes…I, uh—I wasn’t as strong as you,” she said, gesturing to him with a wane smile. “But I was fast. So my Booker had me focus on that and that’s what I taught Eli. In Columbia, I arrived at twilight—just in time for the raffle. I stole this Undertow Vigor at their little display at the fair—“

_BANG!_

The ground tumbled and they instinctively grabbed onto each other to keep their feet. Annabelle’s wall of water fell apart, collapsing in a cold wave over them. But before Booker could pull her behind him (habit, perhaps, because of Elizabeth), Annabelle jumped up. “It’s a Big Sister,” she told him urgently. “These girls are fast as a bat outta hell—“

As if she heard, a piercing wallow of a shriek blasted around them, the sound waves were thick and heavy, like gravity was working against them. Booker threw his arm over Annabelle, using his bulk to shield her so she could stand. Belle threw herself forward.

Undertow whirled around her, spidering like an octopus and diving for Big Sister. Booker could see that, like Caper and Sally, it was likely a teenage girl. Small but agile and wicked quick, greased lightning. But the girl’s eyes were cold and dead, ravenous. Like Sally’s sometimes were. 

Annabelle slid passed the Sister, whipping with a coil of water to grab the girl. It was best to avoid the Big Sisters all together, she had found, while scoping out Minerva’s Den. But if one had to fight her, then best catch her _first._ She wasn’t as strong as a Big Daddy, perhaps, but if she got close enough—it wouldn’t matter. 

The water tossed the Sister, who shrieked again, flipping back and giving the limb of water a jolt of Electrobolt. Annabelle dropped Undertow, instantly switching to Security Command—and seamlessly, Booker stepped in. Perfectly timed, exactly the moment she needed as he ran forward, summoning those black, luminous crows—the Sister’s attention turned to Booker, letting Annabelle summon security bots. And then she grabbed the chemical thrower.

It was….strange—she hadn’t fought next to Booker in twenty years—but it was so _familiar._ The ebb and flow, she moved in and he covered her. When he advanced, she protected him. Give and take in equal parts. Like a puzzle piece fitting into place. 

Booker followed the Crows with Charge, the magnetic shield surrounding him flashed against a bladed spear, like a harpoon. She slammed it into his chest, jaw, kneecaps before he snatched at her with Possession. 

Annabelle appeared, fists frosted as she called on Old Man Winter, summoning two monoliths of ice, one on either side of the Big Sister. It securely trapped her feet and arms in heavy solid blocks. Even Annabelle looked a little surprised at how neatly it happened.

Booker reached forward and pressed the release-lock. The Sister’s helm went down. She was pale and gaunt, skin waxy and transparent. Her hair was filthy and matted, eyes crazed.

“Oh my god…” Annabelle murmured. “The poor thing…” 

The Sister shrieked at them, eyes going liquid black. Booker and Annabelle both took a cautionary step away. She raved and howled, fighting against the blocks of unmelting ice as soon as Possession wore off. Her screaming turned into sobbing, enraged and helpless. 

“Hey!” Annabelle barked. “Quiet down!”

“She’s gonna bring more of ‘em down on us,” Booker grumbled, taking out a kerchief and gagging the teenager with it. “We wanna talk to you,” he interrupted her struggling sounds. “Unless you want me to just kill you right now?”

The Sister recoiled, hissing at him but stopped the muffled yelling into Booker’s kerchief.

“Do you have a Little Sister with you or are you looking for us?” Annabelle demanded, pulling the fabric from her chapped lips.

“Get all the Adam and all the roses, all the roses,” the girl spat, eyes wide and glaring amber brown. “Get all the _monsters out of you!”_

Annabelle sighed, softly. “This is how they seem to be. I’ve run into two and managed to avoid three others. But when you watch them….this is how they are. When the Little Sisters hit puberty…they turned them into killers instead.”

“And we have no way to fix them. Shit, I should have gotten the plasmid from Jack somehow.”

The Sister suit whistled, the plasma thrusters they used for swimming, kicked on. 

“All right, here,” Annabelle offered and pulled out a small gun. She pointed it at the Big Sister, who started to scream—until the dart hit her in the neck. The girl went limp as a ragdoll. “This will keep her down for about twenty minutes.” The woman knelt and opened up her pack, removing a small syringe kit. Booker watched her carefully assemble the syringe and then take a blood sample from the teenager. “Assuming that Elizabeth’s theory on how Rapture’s security works is correct, we can at least take a sample from her. So when we get to Eleanor and sort this all out—we’ll be able to find her again.”

Booker frowned, rubbing his jaw. “I hate to just leave her here.”

“We have no way to fix her. She’ll just keep trying to kill us, I imagine.” Annabelle somberly capped the needle and then slid it into her jacket’s inside pocket in a small plastic case. “Poor thing.”

Booker eyed the little dart gun. “Where’d you get that?”

“Actually, Eli found this in a Tear.” She offered it to him for examination as they started away from the unconscious Sister. “I believe the Other Elizabeth used it.”

Booker slipped out of the exhibit first, eyes drifting in the shadows and going into a doorway. “So….Eli didn’t see another version of himself? He actually only saw Elizabeth.”

“Yes,” Annabelle agreed, suddenly appearing to mirror his own unease. “So we initially didn’t even realize who she was. We couldn’t understand why Eli would suddenly start seeing a stranger and he wanted to figure it out, so we followed it. But when we arrived, Eli’s nose started to bleed—which, I don’t know about you—but I’d never seen that before. We crossed realities, like you and Elizabeth did, almost half a dozen times. I was dead in all of them, so I had some practice. It was disorienting for him. Because he hadn’t seen himself at all.”

“So….we can’t actually say for certain whether or not another reality’s Eli might be here.”

“I don’t know. I imagine that that’s the case. There’s no way to know for certain. But if he is and he and the Other Elizabeth are somehow….connected and if he is still alive and afflicted with the same madness….” Annabelle trailed off, frowning at another macabre playset of a hand dragging a boy away, instead. Honestly, she wasn’t entirely sure she could kill another version of Eli. She knew she would hesitate, at least. No matter how she tried to prepare for it. She knew in her heart, in her gut, that she would hesitate. She….she loved the damn kid. He was kind of dopey but big-hearted and also genuine and honest but so crushingly lonesome. 

Booker looked sidelong at her, appearing to read her expression. “We’ll do what we can, if that happens.”

“And if we can’t, then I suppose I can at least give him a humane end. Quick and clean,” Annabelle added, eyes sober and distant as they ascended some stairs to some sort of common area, likely for staff. "The Other Elizabeth suffered. I, at least, don't want him to suffer."

“Annabelle….” Booker said, quietly.

“I only mean that we will do what has to be done. If it happens, then it happens. And if it doesn’t, then I will thank whichever star I have that’s lucky because, apparently, it doesn’t show up much.”

“Annabelle, if it comes to that—you don’t—you shouldn’t….I mean, I could—“

“No,” she said, more tersely than she’d intended, shoulders tensing and looking away. “He’s…he’s my son. If it comes to it….”

“He’s my—“ Booker cut himself off. Because no, Elijah was not _his_ son. He barely knew the kid, just that he was wary of Booker, which he couldn’t really blame the kid for. He remembered how it felt, feeling Lady Comstock struggle and whimper. It woke him in the dead of night. He was deeply terrified he might wake up with his hands around _this_ Annabelle’s throat.

They tiptoed along in silence for a time, both awkwardly aware of their own protectiveness for children they had not initially intended to grow fond of. They each went to Columbia for something. Booker ‘remembered’ going because he had to wipe away his debt. In the same vein, Annabelle 'remembered' going because the woman from New York could give her revenge.

But Booker changed, the longer he was with Elizabeth. The more she became his…partner-in-crime? His….friend? Sort of? (He was a little old to be her friend, he'd thought, at the time.) He protected her and the more he saw of her real self, the more he saw a damaged spirit. And in that spirit, something like kinship. She was so lonely….

And Annabelle changed, the longer she was with Eli. Her frustration with him faded by the carousel. Watching him look at the lights, glittering in the darkness of the boardwalk—it made him look younger, focused and thoughtful on something as simple as a carousel. Certainly, it was pretty, yes but…….oh, of course…he’d never seen anything like it. Maybe a picture but not in real life. And then he suddenly snorted on a soft chuckle, lowering his eyes to hide his sudden smile.

“What?” She had asked him, wrinkling her nose. 

“So if we have to use this thing for cover, which one of these rail-animals do you think will hold up?” He chuckled again. He had kind of a topsy-turvy sense of humor, Annabelle realized because, of course, none of the carousel animals would likely hold up to gunfire. 

“Probably none, but if this thing had a built in gunner bot, it wouldn’t surprise me.”

Eli barked out a laugh and then awkwardly muffled it with his palm. “Right?” He then agreed, smiling earnestly at her. 

It had given her that first pang of real fondness for the boy, sudden and suffocating. And yet…..also kind of pleasant too. He was a funny kid. Sort of awkward with people. Just a bit odd. Like Elizabeth was just....a bit odd. She wouldn't want Booker to have to....put down an insane version of his own daughter. That was....terrible. But, like her, he'd never allow another to do such a thing. It was bitter and it was loyal. 

Booker didn’t say anything, just watched the slight haunting wistfulness of her gaze. Annabelle had wanted children. Just like he had. Now they had them. In the weirdest way possible.

When Jack’s face suddenly took over the nearest security screen, Booker stopped short, pointing. “Belle, it’s Jack!” 

“Oh god, is he all right?!” Annabelle asked, hurrying over the television and turned the volume up. 

Booker watched from behind her as Jack spat words back and forth with Doctor Lamb. “Well….he doesn’t seem to be hurt.” When Eli spoke, Booker watched Annabelle’s expression change. She automatically reached out, touching the screen as Jack looked away from them. Her breath was a shudder of relief. She couldn’t see Eli but she could hear him. She knew he was alive. There was a chance they’d met up with others, a chance they were all alive. But they were going to Persephone. And more importantly, they _told_ Lamb they were coming. Why would they break the element of surprise—

 _Oh…._ She looked between herself and Booker. He followed her gaze, perhaps wondering the same thing. 

“To keep attention off of us,” Booker said quietly, rubbing his rough jaw. 

Annabelle smiled faintly. “They think we’re getting too old, eh? Just wait til we see them. They’re all grounded.”

Booker grinned, allowing a low, rumbling laugh in his chest. 

 

 

Doctor Lamb put her microphone down and turned in her daughter’s room. She peered at the child, a selfish and entitled little monster. How had Jack found out about Eleanor? The doctor paced to her bedside, staring down at the leather straps restraining her, the chainlink on all the windows, and the cuffs on her ankles. She was secure. Lamb had hours of uninterrupted film of her daughter kept still and silent. 

She had no contact with anyone. There had been small blips in her brainwaves when Jack had arrived, a new genetic memory. So yes, she remembered Jack from somewhere—perhaps during her time as a Little Sister? Could Jack also feel her daughter’s presence? 

Lamb glared down at her daughter’s still, serene face. “Are you still connected to Little Sisters, Eleanor?”

Perhaps, Lamb had underestimated Eleanor’s will….

She had always been a difficult child. Not like Sofia had been, eager to follow her father’s work. Eleanor was resentful and childish. The loss of control over her education had clearly taken its toll. But Sophia had time and plenty of splicers. Time could change any mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then I was a dweeb, trying to doodle what Elijah Comstock would look like, roughed up like Elizabeth had been: https://sailtheplains.tumblr.com/post/173864273905/doodles-of-elijah-comstock-missing-his-pinkie-and


	18. Nuclei of Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sky is Calling: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KCJzUiBZItk&list=PLQuOKHNudkmd8XwtZosj0WXzYWpuHjTxz&index=77
> 
>  
> 
> When they returned to Jon, Jack was already shaking his head, “You shouldn’t worry about not being strong enough, Jon.” Jack pointed at him, almost sternly. “Me and Eli here can pick up your Normal Human slack. And that’s sayin nothing about Caper and Sally. And I’m pretty sure those two could take all three of us.”
> 
> \--------------------------------------

“Uh…c-can I try one?” Eli muttered under his breath. He glanced furtively at her under his mussed hair. It had been so crisp and neat only eight or nine hours ago. Now he was smeared in soot and dirt. His suit jacket was frayed and he looked tired.

But still, his hesitant tone and awkwardness sort of surprised Annabelle, who was hurriedly reading a pamphlet on what the fuck Shock Jockey was supposed to be. She did a double-take at him. “Oh. Uh, of course,” she said, peering at him. Right. He was a young man and he had nothing but the clothes on his back. He must be starving. It had been a long day. Annabelle straightened up and tried to neaten her hair as she approached the extremely enthusiastic hot dog vendor. “Yes, please, one for me and two for the boy.” She offered out a few Silver Eagles.

“Yes, of course, for the lovely lady and her handsome son! Lookit this, he has the look of a flying ace about him, doesn’t he, ma’am!”

“He absolutely does,” Annabelle answered immediately, giving the man a winning, motherly smile and looking at Eli. He really did, honestly. A handsome young man, tall and strong, with dark hair and those dark jade eyes. What was interesting, though—is how no one recognized him. Just as Eli had never been allowed out into the city—the city had not seen him. 

“How old _are_ you, Mrs Dewitt?” Eli asked her as they sat down on a park bench. 

“I’m not—look, just call me Annabelle, please.”

Eli shifted awkwardly and then focused on his hot dog instead. 

Annabelle sighed softly, reminding herself to be patient. “Thirty-eight.”

“Where’s, uh….I mean…is there a…..a Mister Dewitt?” 

Annabelle paused only a moment to breath. “I’m a widow,” she said, sounding a little prickly at his questions. 

The boy blinked and looked over at her, surprised. “I’m sorry. What happened to him?”

Annabelle did not meet his gaze. She looked out over the clouds at this incredible flying city. “We were attacked one night. He tried to save our child but was shot and killed.”

“You have a child?”

Annabelle’s eyes turned to stone. “No.”

Eli took a thoughtful bite of his second hot dog, slightly apologetic in his silence for a minute. “So who hired you to find me?”

“Well, now I’m not so sure,” Belle grumbled. 

What the shit could the people who built Columbia, possibly have to do with two nobodies in New York twenty years ago? Why come to them to offer to buy a child? She and Booker had had no powerful enemies, not that she knew of. So why them? The hot dog churned anxiously in her stomach. She took out a cigarette. 

“I, uh,” Eli suddenly spoke again, softly. “I’m sorry that I, uh….that I left you on the beach.”

Somehow, that wasn’t what she was expecting. Annabelle did a double-take at him. “Oh. Uh. Oh, no—that’s not a big deal, kid. You had never—you’d never been. It’s…you were curious.”

“I, uh, got carried away, a little when they offered to let me play their violin,” Eli admitted, glancing carefully at her from the corner of his eye. “And when you found me and I realized how….how badly you were hurt, I just…I dunno.” He stared down at a few smears of ketchup. “I’m sorry,” he finished awkwardly.

“It’s all right. You meant no harm, Elijah.” Annabelle got up, busying herself by going to the trash bin and disposing of the paper basket. 

“You’re just…” Eli got up, hurrying after her. “….it’s just, you’re a lady—but you’re….”

“Not really much of one. Not that it matters,” she reminded him. “We need to find somewhere to hide for the night. And some water.”

“Are you with Columbia’s military? I’ve heard down Below that they don’t let women serve but Columbia does.”

“I’m _not_ from Columbia. I’ve never even heard of this place.” They headed down by the shops. 

“Really? Huh….I guess I would have assumed that Columbia was common knowledge below?”

Annabelle thought of her sad little flat and smiled a little. “Well, it’s possible that I’m behind on current events.” It just seemed so weird that she could have missed _this._

“So how _does_ this man, Slate, know your name?” Eli asked, as they ducked under the boardwalk. The sunset was a gorgeous painting of stained-glass bars of light. 

Annabelle wrinkled her nose and went back to checking her gear. “Slate served in the army with my late husband, Booker Dewitt.” Her shoulders went stiff and tense around her ears again, almost unconsciously. She’d been concerned before. But Slate being here clearly struck a nerve. There was an electric caginess to her. It made the looping coils of water from Undertow restless and agitated. 

“Slate called him a coward.”

Annabelle practically bristled, going still as a fox as her eyes narrowed in on him. “He didn’t _know_ Booker. Booker was man enough to stand up for what he believed in. It nearly got him murdered by his comrades. Slate _butchered_ innocent people for fucking sport at Wounded Knee. Women and children, everyone.” Annabelle cut herself off, stewing. Her face an epitaph of guarded rage. She had been trying not to start talking about Slate but he’d _clearly_ gotten under her skin with his comments about her dead husband. 

Eli suddenly felt a little sorry for her—even though it was her own fault she was here. “So your husband, Booker. He refused to kill innocent people. And so Slate hates him.”

Annabelle examined his expression before she nodded. 

“Sounds like he stuck to his guts then,” Eli said, a hint of admiration in his voice. “He was brave.”

“Not according to the government or to dipshits like Slate,” Annabelle said acidly. She looked down—it had been a while since it had surfaced. Maybe it would never quite leave her, that heavy weight in her heart when she thought of her poor Booker. _Breathe, Annabelle. Just breathe._ She nodded a little. “And yes. He was brave. He is why I am here.”

Eli peered at her. “What do you mean?”

“No offense, kid, but I’m not here for you. I never knew all this even existed. The deal was, I get you out of Columbia in any way I can. In exchange, I find out who killed him.”

“….so you’re exchanging me for information?”

Annabelle finished with her weapons and gear. “Yes. So. If I want to find the people who killed him, I have to get you out of here alive. How much do you know about guns?”

“Not much,” he admitted, eyes turning guarded and cold. “They only let me work with traditional weapons.”

“So just the basics, then,” Annabelle mused, looking through what she had.

Elijah wrinkled his nose at her. “I’ve read a great deal about them. I know what they look like and how they function.”

Annabelle closed her eyes, reminding herself to be patient. “Just take this pistol, all right. Keep it on you in case I get shot and you have to leave me.”

The boy blinked at her. “Mrs Dewitt—“

“Just Annabelle or Bea. All right? Annabelle or Bea. Please. Now, just keep this on you in case you need to protect yourself.”

“If you are really planning to sell me to some nameless stranger in New York so that you can murder someone else—“

Annabelle rubbed her hands down her face. “Then go ahead and shoot me _after_ I get you out of here!”

“You’re like a hired killer. A mercenary, aren’t you?” Elijah pressed, eyeing her suspiciously again. “Did your husband teach you? Is _that_ where you learned how to do all this?”

Annabelle took a deep breath, reminding herself that the boy was naïve and blisteringly curious. A potentially infuriating combination. “Yes. Now, let’s go. This is going to get bad.”

 _(“Let’s see if you can do what your coward of a husband couldn’t, Dewitt!”)_

Eli was still not quite accustomed to the crack of gunfire. It always took time for people to adapt. That was no problem. Annabelle emphasized quiet swiftness whenever possible. She liked the crows but they were so _loud_ and Annabelle didn’t want to attract any attention. Undertow was silent. Still difficult to control but she was getting the hang of it. The tendrils of water became a part of her, whipping in and around the gardens. 

Afterwards, she was painted in dried blood from the day’s activities. It smeared and streaked when the water from Undertow hit it. Her backup Vigor of choice appeared to be Possession. She would cast it and then run up on guards in the ensuing chaos. Her knives were savage and when she got the airhook, she clamped it to her wrist like it belonged there. A stab in the gut with a knife and follow up with the grappling device and it would tear a man apart from the inside. Ms Dewitt was not very tall but she was clearly quite strong. Up close, Eli could see it—toned arms and thighs and legs. She had blood on her throat from a man she had killed to protect them. It dripped off the airhook and clotted on her knives’ sheaths. Something about the roughness of her, he’d never met a woman like her. Her button-up was torn and filthy with soot and blood. Something about it was….

It made Eli’s blood beat faster. He wanted to keep up with her. He wanted to do what she could do.

But she stood there in front of Slate at the end of it, hating the soldier with her cold glacier-blue eyes. She pushed the barrel against his head, knowing he _wanted_ to die and it fucking _rankled_ that she would be doing what he wanted if she executed him. That injustice burned a hole in her throat. But if she let Comstock have him?

She paused, the barrel still digging into a discolored lump of scar tissue from his overuse of Shock Jockey. "Slate, did you tell Comstock about Booker?"

Something in Slate's gaze sharpened on her. "No. He already knew. You saw how he wrote himself into our history! You _saw!_ For all else are lies but he is a prophet. It was he who extended me a veteran's invitation and brought me here, to Columbia. But never once did he ask about Dewitt."

Annabelle peered at his crazed, blood-shot eyes. That didn't make any goddamn sense. How could Comstock know so much about Booker then? Booker had never _once_ mentioned a Comstock among their company in any of his letters. She still had them in a safe under her cot in the back room of her office in New York. But at this point, asking Slate further questions was useless. The man had gone totally mad, better to put him down now and be done with it. That was all the excuse she needed to pull the trigger. Who knew what Comstock's monsters might get out of him, after all. She put three shots into his head, just to make sure. “Call my husband a coward again,” she challenged his corpse, soft and rough and terse through her gritted teeth.

Eli just watched the dangerously cold rage on her face, silent. 

Fifty feet to the northwest was where and when they discovered, in museum-dramatic fashion, that Comstock was, apparently, his father. He wasn’t even sure how to process that. So these statues that were _everywhere,_ showing a young man in flowing robes and angelic hair with a flaming sword held aloft…that was the…. _character_ that Comstock was selling? Based on….him? And if he was the Prophet’s ‘seed’ or whatever, what, exactly was he drowning in flame? And why?

“Why would he do that? Why build a religion—I didn’t even know he was my…father, I guess—“

“I’m gonna say it’s the tears,” Annabelle told him flatly. “I have never seen anything like them.”

_….have I?_

“What do you mean?” Eli prompted. “Is it not a common ability, I take it?”

Annabelle stared at him for a second, not sure if he was joking. He just continued to look at her, blankly. “Uh….no. It’s not. Like I said….never seen anything like that. That’s new. I mean, these Vigors are one thing but….that….I don’t know what to make of it. But you are definitely the _only_ one I’ve seen use them.”

She saw the realization in his face. “Oh,” he managed softly. “Well, shit.”

“Helluva sales model,” she agreed. “Comstock went all out, I guess—presenting you as some kind of…messiah or something.”

“That’s…ridiculous,” Eli sputtered. “I—that—that doesn’t even—why would I even—all I want to do is leave. I don’t want anything to do with cults and tyrants. This guy has been selling me as, what, an agent of judgment—this entire time? And no one told me? Why? That doesn’t make any sense!”

Annabelle went still, watching Eli start to pace. His fingers stretched as the ghostly trails from Possession followed his gestures. “I don’t know, Eli—it seems like he was grooming you for something—“

“I’ve never even _met_ Comstock. I’ve only read about the guy. Did he think he was just gonna walk up to me one day, open the door, say hallo, he’s my dad and then ask me to commit mass murder, presumably? I mean, no matter how you say it, _drowning in flames the mountains of men,_ sounds bad no matter what.”

Annabelle frowned. “……I wonder if he had something else in mind to make you cooperate.”

Eli jerked a little, looking at her. 

“Had you ever been outside of that apartment—I mean, other places in that building? Because I saw things in there that….I’m not sure what they were—but…..”

“I haven’t—just to a small encased area where I was allowed to exercise. Not until you came and I saw the…the windows.” Eli looked at the boardwalk planks. 

“There was a lot of strange stuff back there. But one room stood out—some kind of….power siphon. There were three glass cases and each one held a different object. Each one was labeled: Age 4 had a stuffed Songbird, Age 11 had a book— _Gulliver’s Travels,_ and the last one, Age 15 had a….what looked to be…a broken bone.” Annabelle watched the boy’s gaze sharpen. “There was a switch next to each one,” she continued, “when I flipped it….the objects would….change. Sort of. The bird turned colors four times, each time I flipped it—it changed to a different color. But the fifth time, the stuffed animal Songbird disappeared entirely and a stuffed dragon took its place.”

“What about the other two?”

“The book changed titles, each time I flipped the power lever to….whatever that siphon thing was. Some of them were in other languages, but I stopped on _Principals of Quantum Mechanics,_ I think. But the bone…..it was either broken or not broken. Nothing else changed about it.”

“Like other versions of those objects,” Eli mused. “Like my tears. Doors or windows into other worlds but concentrated on a sole object that I’ve interacted with.” Eli shifted thoughtfully on the bench, looking up into the star-studded sky. “I wonder, then, if I could help.”

“Okay, but let me remind you, for just a moment—that in the elevator, you almost couldn’t close it in time. And we almost got murdered by the gigantic bird monster.”

Eli looked away. “I mean just objects then. Just…objects. No doors.”

“You can do that then, bring in objects from….other worlds? Instead of….whole open windows like in the elevator.”

“Yeah….I guess so,” he said quietly, looking puzzled. “I don’t get it though, if that was the case….why couldn’t I just _create_ a key?” 

“Huh,” Annabelle pondered. “Well, there were a lot of signs in that building about how the machines were ‘leeching the specimen’. So if Comstock is somehow…..channeling your ability with these machines…and using it to displace objects….” 

There was something there. Something was off about this whole thing. She needed more information. 

“Maybe because I’d never seen it myself?” Eli wondered and then got up as Annabelle rubbed her forehead.

Something pinged and then _slammed_ into Annabelle, throwing her back into the wall. Her magnetic-repulsion shield had saved her. 

“Sniper!” Eli sang out, sprinting to a corpse and pulling a rifle off of it. He threw it to the woman, to see if she was telling true about her utility with weapons. But she flipped it easily in her hands, clearly accustomed to the weight and heft. Huh, perhaps he’d been too quick to doubt her.

“Under the bridge!” Annabelle commanded him before dodging out into the moonlight and catching a glint off the scope before diving back. She saw the position behind her eyelids for a moment and then whipped around, stepping out again and moving in a smooth arc. One continuous movement, lift, shifting, barely even a glance through the scope as she held her breath and pulled the trigger.

It echoed around the suddenly silent fore area of the attraction. 

 

 

 

“You didn’t wake me,” Annabelle murmured from her makeshift pillow-jacket. 

“You needed the rest,” Booker replied, sitting awake next to her, propped up on an old trunk. 

She heaved a great big sigh and turned on her side to face him. “You’re like a big, grumpy dog sometimes. It’s the whole point of taking watch, you know.” But she sounded fond when she said it, looking up at him from the floor. 

Their eyes met but this time neither looked away. Booker smiled a little as Annabelle sat up and pulled her pack to her. “You know, I….don’t know what you remember about me,” Annabelle began quietly as she rolled up more smoke. “But, uh….I just…look—this is difficult, we can both admit that. Being here. At the same time. Together. I’d rather just hash it out openly and get it over with.” She offered him a roll of smoke. 

Booker peered at it. “How much of that stuff do you _have?”_

“Oh, I found this _here,”_ Annabelle admitted, chuckling. “There was a huge crop of it in Minerva’s Den. It’s much better than the stuff I used to get at the docks.”

“The docks?” Booker inquired. 

“I….occasionally got to poke around in that area. One time an impounded ship came in to New York harbor with tobacco and then….this. We just called it Chinese tobacco. But here, I learned it’s actually called marijuana. Go figure. It’s so weird being in different times…”

“So you were still a detective after…afterwards,” he said, watching her carefully.

“Yes…um…” Annabelle shifted, peeling the tips of her fingernails like a nervous habit. “I was one of the only female detectives in New York City in 1891. So….I had to change the….I dunno—whatever. I ended up with a particular clientele, most of the time. Women would come to me, and sometimes men, because the police wouldn’t help them or whatever. So, lower, middle-class and wealthy women were most of my clients. A lot of the cases would involve what idiocy their husbands were getting up to. And the others were….” She chuckled. “….freelance information gathering, I guess. Extremely efficient, most of the ladies. Smuggling and underground things. So I got to get in to a surprising amount of interesting places.”

“Wow,” Booker mused, smiling at her. “And here I just did the usual, alcohol and gambling.”

That made her laugh as she sat up to lean on the trunk next to him. “I liked the smoke dens more than alcohol, it turned out.”

“Ah, I see….” 

“Yeah,” she agreed. “I spent some time in them after I lost Booker. I suppose for the same reason you drank.”

“Not as much anymore, at least.”

“Sounds like Elizabeth was a good influence on you?”

Booker looked away, staring at his knees. “She….” And then he halted, swallowing hard to try and force himself to reconsider speaking, but then he blundered forward anyway. “She gave me a reason to….keep going, I guess.” The shame pulled him down like a heavy blanket. “I…wasn’t able to cope,” he managed stiffly, “without Annabelle. And so when he came to me, Robert Lutece….”

Annabelle had gone very still, watching him closely. He was so tense suddenly, nervous, ashamed but maybe he needed to tell her….

“He came to me,” Booker finally went on, steadying his voice and clearing his throat. “And told me that he represented a rich client who would…who would look after her every need. He would take care of her, provide for her….better than anything I could give. But when I….gave Anna over to him….” Booker put his forehead in his hand. “…I changed my mind. I panicked. She was all I had left of Annabelle. Could I really just give up like that? And when I followed, I saw him….Comstock. I didn’t know it then, of course, but he had Anna in his arms in the alley and I fought him for her but…he went through and then they were gone. And then…things got darker for a while.” He trailed off, suddenly slumping a little. Like the relief one might feel after confession. 

“All that is behind you now, Booker,” Annabelle said quietly. “When Jack said you were a good man, he believed it. Elizabeth is devoted to you. She loves you. If she thinks you’re worth a damn, then I can do nothing less but make sure you get back to her.”

“If you hate me—I would understand.”

She shook her head in the dim firelight, looking up at the aquarium walls. “No…..you’ve been through a lot. We have all done things we regret. We can’t change them now. It would be….pointless and hypocritical for me to hate you.”

Booker eased with a deep breath. He steadied, rubbing his forehead. Maybe he’d just needed to tell someone _why._ No one had ever asked him the why. He studied her calm features like a man faced with a living version of his previously dead wife. Unsettled by her presence, uncertain but he at least managed to tell her the _why_ of it. He felt like he _owed_ her that.

She seemed to feel it, shifting a little awkwardly before she met his eyes. The urge to reach out and touch him was strong. _Powerful,_ even. She had to fight it. Annabelle wasn’t a teenager anymore. It would be silly and irresponsible and…..a host of other things best not considered. The woman looked away from him. “It would not….uh, be a good idea for us to…uh, get too comfortable, though,” she said. Her voice wavered, a little choppy and it was suddenly hard to meet his gaze.

“Yeah,” Booker agreed quietly. And then, rather logically, “Transdimensional baby could make things…weirder.”

Annabelle burst out laughing. “Not what I was gonna say, but very true. Also, it’s filthy down here.” She offered Booker a reefer.

He took it with a nod. “Yeah….it is pretty gross down here.” He lit it, waving a fluff of powder blue smoke away from his eyes. “So yeah, not a good idea. But—I appreciate just….out and discussing it. I guess. I mean, I do. I just….” Booker sighed over his wording until Annabelle touched his arm.

“I wasn’t always that way, I know. After I lost Booker, I….changed,” she settled on, eyes hardening over like blue steel. “I took over the office. And, well, while this place seems to have had a little bit of respect for women in their fields, sadly, overall, the attitude seems to have stayed mostly the same. The little John and Mary conversations kind of make me want to cut the throat of whoever wrote them.” Her fingers slid away from his sleeve. “And, in any case, we _were_ married to…our other selves but—it’s not really a stretch to say, you’re still fairly handsome, I guess.” She fought a teasing smile.

“Yeah?” He asked in a smirking sort of annoyance. “I guess you still look okay too. Except what happened here?” He reached out, touching the scar under her lip that traced its way down her throat. He stopped with his thumb on her chin, fingertips skimming over her heartbeat (faster, suddenly). Somehow, Booker hadn’t expected her to be as tempted as he was. Somehow, he had thought only he would struggle with being around her again. But he felt her racing heart and she could never hide the flood of heat that would flush her face red in a moment. (She’d always hated how obvious it was and resented that she couldn’t control it—but Booker had secretly sort of liked the shyness that would creep into her eyes, letting her guard down around him. And he got to make her feel _safe_ and _warm_ and _secure_ and—) Jesus Christ, they were fucking adults, not teenagers.

He shook himself. “Sorry, fuck, sorry.” He pulled his hand away.

She didn’t really look surprised or upset. She looked resigned, like he felt. Somehow, he hadn’t thought she would….care at all. Or…maybe care wasn’t the right word.

How could she associate him with a Booker who was….so much better than he was? It didn’t make sense. Normal physical human reactions? Sexual attraction, the hole when you remember someone you miss: those things made sense. They were kneejerk human reactions to pain, trauma and loss. Fucking her would likely make them both feel more grounded, maybe even distract them.

But afterwards….the guilt would creep in. He knew it would. It always did. 

And he could see it in her face that she understood, she knew it too. She took a long drag off her weed, her smile was crooked. “It’s all right. We’ll talk about scars tomorrow—you’ve got some I want to ask about too. So get some rest, Booker. I’ll take watch from here since you tried to hog it all night.”

Booker’s expression broke into something…accepting, grateful. Plus the weed was definitely helping him relax—he hadn’t really smoked this stuff much. So it rather surprised him when he fell asleep (or, well, it would have).

 

 

 

Eli sat by their makeshift fire to keep watch. He’d found a book in their traveling to the clinic and apartments of one Yi Suchong. _Lord of the Rings_ was the title. There were so many more books in Rapture. And many many times more fiction books. 

Jon was sleeping uneasily just outside of the firelight’s reach. He woke often and slept lightly. He’d been quieter and even more withdrawn after they’d spoken with Doctor Porter—who fixed up Sally and Caper’s suits before giving the young men some upgraded weapons to play with. Eli suspected he knew why.

“Jon,” he said to the fire. Eli watched the young man turn over, staring him with those ghostly grey eyes. “If you wanted….I could…” He gestured pointlessly at the fire. “….I think I could change you back,” he said. 

Jon sat up slowly, eyes skittering over the possibilities of that but then it faded, drifting to the floor. “I won’t be as strong, if you do that.”

Eli hesitated. “That’s….that’s not the point, Jon.”

“I’m only good at fighting,” Jon said softly. “I won’t be of any use to you all, otherwise.”

“Jon—you’re worth more than the…people you kill,” Eli said, more sharply than he intended, perhaps. “You have more to offer—“

“I have to help you get to Persephone first.”

“All right, all right,” Eli said, more gently as Jon was pointless to argue with when he got on that side Big Daddy of his conditioning. “I gotcha. But when this is over—whenever you wanna do it—just say the word. Me or Elizabeth— one of us can get you sorted out to….whatever degree you want.”

“I might have killed your mother,” Jon reminded him, sounding agitated. 

“There’s probably a reality where you did,” Eli agreed quietly. “Maybe it was this one. Maybe it wasn’t.”

“Why would you want to help me? I killed…people. I…I am a….a monster,” Jon almost whispered, looking down at his scarred hands. 

Eli looked down too. “If not for Annabelle, I would have been so weak that I would have just gone with Comstock’s plan and murdered millions of people on his convoluted sense of fiery justice. Booker Dewitt—the one who was with us—he participated in a massacre of women and children. But Elizabeth believes in him. My first instinct was to treat him a monster. But….that would make me a hypocrite. I don’t know how to help that but….I believe in second chances. Because I’ve literally seen them. Lived them. I remember them.” Eli looked up, eyes drifting away to some other place in his head. 

Jon’s eyes sharpened on the boy, looking thoughtful. “Like all the voices we hear from Adam,” he mused. “You hear the echoes of your other lives.”

Eli came back abruptly, looking over at him. “….yeah, that’s….actually really on point, Jon.”

“That is what Eleanor experiences,” Jon informed him. “She hears everyone that the Adam has touched. The _samples,_ that is why Doctor Lamb uses the Little Sisters—“ Jon suddenly choked, the hated stabbing ice-pick of pain that slammed into his eyes. He felt Eli move, kneeling beside him. “I’m not….not supposed to talk about that….” Jon managed, wiping blood onto his sleeve. His head was spinning. 

Eli held him up. “It’s all right, I got you, buddy.” He helped Jon lean back against the wall. “Maybe I can, at least…take away the conditioning?”

“Lamb will know,” Jon answered, shaking his head, eyes resigned and dead. “She’ll know, she’ll know. She has all these….these….she’ll know something is wrong if I don’t respond right. And without the conditioning, I’m not sure if it’s all that I remember—”

“Jon,” Eli said, voice low and calming. “Hey, Lamb already knows we’re coming. Apparently Sinclair has been lying to Lamb on your whereabouts. So when you walk up without your suit—I imagine she’ll already have guessed that something is up.”

“But I won’t be as strong,” Jon insisted. “I won’t. I won’t be as fast or as strong. And if we go into Persephone—and Lamb corners us—we _will_ die. And now she knows we’re coming.”

“So more splicers, sure—but—“

“Have you _seen_ a Big Sister?” Jon asked bluntly. “Lamb kills people in many ways. But if they’re young enough, they all end up on her table.” Like he had. Jon rested his forehead in his palm. “It’s mental conditioning for now, boys and girls. But only a matter of time before she starts trying to genetically control them, like Fontaine did to Jack. I don’t trust myself to make the choice on my own.” Jon’s shoulders hunched, ashamed and raw. Bone honest and broken. “I don’t know what’s me…and what’s….Delta.”

It hit Eli like a brick. _What’s Comstock and what’s Dewitt?_ And Tenenbaum, a monster who was trying to atone. Dewitt, a monster who was fiercely loyal and trying to atone. Jon, a monster who had been forced into the role by someone else. Elizabeth and Eli, a pair of monsters who would go and destroy city after city after city (or maybe timeline after timeline). 

“We’re all monsters. You were, at least, an unwilling participant,” Eli told him. “Real monsters don’t understand that they’re monsters. They hurt and maim and terrorize with no thought but to their own agenda and think everyone else ought to be grateful for it. The best ones even _convince_ otherwise intelligent people to be grateful for it. You have enough self-awareness to consider that you might be a monster.”

“And you don’t?”

Eli did a double-take at him and then looked at the fire. “I have seen all the versions of myself that are even bigger monsters than me. It’s a constant reminder of the terrible things we are all capable of doing….and of regretting.” _Like Booker Dewitt._ Perhaps Annabelle had been right…he’d been too quick to judge…a knee-jerk (emotional) reaction that Eli hadn’t wanted to analyze because he knew he wouldn’t like to face the answer.

Sometimes, despite the millions of lifetimes he’d seen and lived, he was still young.

“How about just the….whatever it is that makes the pheromones work. Get rid of that. I…I _hate_ them being in my head all the time,” Jon suddenly blurted it out, as if to say it in a hurry before he changed his mind. “But leave the rest. Just….just in case.” He looked away again, as if ashamed of his own self-loathing. 

“All right, Jon. All right. So…I _think_ you will remember everything up to right now. But…I don’t actually know. I didn’t know Doctor Porter, so I’m not sure what he remembers. Just so you’re aware.”

Jon’s eyes flickered up and met his own before he nodded. “All right.” And then he bowed his head and closed his eyes, like a man sent to the chopping block. 

“Let me wake Jack, first,” Eli suggested, getting up and ducking behind the remains of a door where there was a bedroom. He roused Jack carefully with an easy touch to his arm. That was all it took and Jack tensed awake. High-strung, poor guy. Eli explained quickly, as Caper and Sally rose to follow them.

When they returned to Jon, Jack was already shaking his head, “You shouldn’t worry about not being strong enough, Jon.” Jack pointed at him, almost sternly. “Me and Eli here can pick up your Normal Human slack. And that’s sayin nothing about Caper and Sally. And I’m pretty sure those two could take all three of us.”

Sally nodded. “Probably.”

“But. We. Would not.” Caper sounded thoughtful, musing over each word. 

“I still want Tenenbaum,” Sally replied flatly.

“How about a book?” Eli suggested instead, pulling a little stack to his knee and offering out a volume he'd found in Anna Cullpepper's apartment: _The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe_

Sally looked at him like he’d said it in some other language. “What the hell am I gonna do with a book?”

“Read the first chapter,” Eli informed her, raising his eyebrows. “And if I’ve figured out how to place other people at the anchor of my power, I might be able to help you and Caper too.”

Sally and Caper exchanged suspicious looks. Sally scowled and stalked away to keep watch. Caper hesitated and then gently took the book that Eli still offered out before going to join Sally. Dutifully, Caper examined the book and then opened it.

“Wait—if you change Jon, will it sever his connection to Eleanor?”

Jon immediately jerked back and Eli had to pause. “I don’t know,” the Comstock boy admitted. “I don’t know. I’ve only _ever_ used it on Annabelle or myself—until Doctor Porter….I hadn’t ever tried opening….tears into other people. I thought it worked because Annabelle is, genetically, my mother. I didn’t know it when I met her—but after I found out, I guessed that because we were genetically related, I could pull through objects that I had seen or used—but also ones that _she_ had seen and used. But I’ve never done that with another person—I could only ever _look_ at what they had seen but I couldn’t use it. Annabelle seemed to remember everything right up until whatever had injured her. But this would be going back a good deal farther. Not seconds or minutes but _years._ So…I don’t know, honestly, what will happen to your mind.”

Jon’s eyebrows furrowed and he shook his head. “……I can’t risk that. I can’t risk losing the connection to Eleanor.”

“That’s okay, Jon. Don’t worry about it. I’m sure Eli or Liz can help you out whenever you want it done.”

“You find anything useful in Suchong’s?” Eli asked, half to simply change the subject for Jon and half because he really was curious.

“Whole lot of shit, unfortunately. Detailed files. Ha, so—like…” And Jack almost staggered, fighting a faint laugh. “I was Ryan’s son, yeah—so that bitch Tenenbaum,” Jack had a hard time not grinding his teeth at her name, “goes to my mother, offers her a huge sum of money for her fetus. So I was actually…made, I guess? I mean, I got a bunch of Miracle Gro later. They basically spliced me like crazy to accelerate my growth. So, guess how old I actually am?” And here Jack laughed weakly again, his eyes cracking apart a little. “I was apparently conceived in 1956. I am four years old.”

Eli dead-stopped. “Shit, so I can’t…..help you. I mean, I….I could but it would turn you into a child, wouldn’t it?”

That must not have yet occurred to Jack from the painful bolt of realization that went through his eyes. Eli instantly was gripped by gut-wrenching cold. “Oh fuck—I’m sorry, Jack. I’m sorry. Hey, let’s look at this stuff, okay. You shoulda said something. Let’s go through it and see if we can—“

Jack shuddered. “We have to get to Persephone—“

“Jack—“ Eli started, exchanging a concerned eye with Jon. 

“We have to get to Persephone before the others,” Jack said, voice hard. “If they’re alive—they’re separated. Five have a better chance of dealing with the brunt of Lamb’s splicers than two or four. So just ignore me—I’m just processing. But we have to keep moving.”

“He’s right,” Sally agreed, eyes needlepointed on Jack. Caper still had the book in her lap, closed over her finger to mark her page. She simply watched, soberly. 

Eli frowned, examining Jack before glancing at Jon. “All right. But after Lamb, we should go through all those files.”

“Put a pin in it,” Jon said, suddenly jumping up. “There’s someone down the corridor.”


	19. Amir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been awhile. Got a lot going on. Also, Trump might get us all killed.
> 
> Lain's Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WAhFBhCXbrg&list=PLQuOKHNudkmd8XwtZosj0WXzYWpuHjTxz&t=0s&index=94
> 
> \-------------------------------------
> 
> “I’m afraid Mister Dewitt won’t be joining you for this important discussion. Children are always a difficult topic and I find that it’s important to question parents separately. They sometimes don’t communicate as clearly as one might think.”  
> \--------------------------------------

Amir remembered hearing a thump and then his father yelling upstairs: “Amir! Come here, I have something to teach you! Yes, you’re going to learn today.”

He heard another thump and a muffled sound as he edged down the stairs, sweating, heart in his throat at what he half-expected and mostly dreaded to see. His father had his mother by the hair. He used it like a fine, dark tether to slam her nose into the kitchen counter. It cracked and blood spurted over the tile. 

"Father!" Amir cried out, twelve at the time, horrified, frozen in place. 

"Amir, my son. You are going to _learn,_ yes, you are. Yes, I told her not to splice. We do not splice anymore. We do not splice! No! And what did your traitor mother do--disobeyed and got more! To ruin us! Ruin ALL of us!" He slammed her face into the counter twice more. And then he whirled her around, dragging her to the other counter, opening up the utensil drawer. "I won't let her do it, Amir! I won't!" And he stabbed her throat with a fork, turning it like spaghetti as she tried to scream and could only gurgle as she died. 

And then he ripped the fork out and all her sounds stopped sounding. 

His did not. Amir's father stared at the fork. Like he expected it to wave at him, he stared at it. Like he was seeing the blood for the first time. Like he'd realized what he'd done. Like maybe he had snapped and now he....

Amir watched him lean forward and lick the blood from the fork. His mother's blood, still warm, on the tongs of the fork, on the tip of his tongue. And then on his fingers, palms, arms as he dug the digits into the slashed pulp of her throat and tore it open. 

That was the last bit that Amir clearly could remember. After that, he had....lost himself somehow. He burst forward, slamming into his father from the side and grabbing his loose tie by the tails. Amir kicked in the back of his father's legs and threw himself down, taking his father with him and then tightening the silk band. He throttled him to death, feeling him get weaker, flailing and fighting, swearing and spitting and spewing blood. 

And when his eyes bulged and his face turned colors and he stopped...then Amir let go of the tie. His hands were red and stiff but he ignored it, crawling away from his dead father and his dead mother. He sat in front of the refrigerator, staring at their bodies and then he cried. Alone in the silence of their home. 

 

 

He became aware again when he heard the whales singing. The whales were the one nice thing left in Rapture. Their singing used to help him sleep as a child. And it was one of the only things that soothed him as an adult.

It was harder to hear them in the maintenance levels. But the machines and great large finned fans had their own sort of song. Persephone wasn’t actually all that far from Hephaestus and Amir was planning their route carefully. He was pretty sure he could get there through the vents but it depended on what systems Lamb had control of. They could go through vents for hours and get locked out if the air locks were still sealed. And then it would be very very difficult to get back. It might be easier to just….

Amir gazed out the thick glass, placing one palm on it as he stared up into the black wall. There were pictures of stars in some of his old books. He’d never seen real stars before. He wondered if they were like spotting jellyfish, flashes of schools of silvery fish glinting through the sunbeams that could manage to penetrate the heavy water. Like that but….but not moving. Just still and twinkling. Like little diamond earrings hung up on black silk. There might be clouds. He’d never seen clouds. 

But mucked around underwater? He’d done that. 

He went to his pack. Elizabeth was sleeping, curled up in an anxious little knot in the corner. She didn’t like sleeping with her back to the room, he’d noticed. It was always against the wall. Booker was typically always near her and she definitely was more relaxed around him. Jon’s creepy intensity was hard to handle, at first, and he had a difficult time fighting the urge to treat her like a Little Sister—too protective, too volatile. Booker was more patient than he’d expected. The Detective was a good man—but he’d been violent too. Amir remembered Suchong very well. And there had been others, over the years. Twice, Amir had done it himself and three times, it had been done to him. This Booker was…more restrained somehow. And yet….also just as fierce. Perhaps the Detective had been desperate to live for something. Maybe Booker had actually found something.

Amir pulled out a notebook and flipped it open to start drawing the main buildings of Rapture from memory. He’d been everywhere in this city, he was pretty sure. Even the Little Sister orphanage. He’d even found notes from Eleanor in a little journal—written years before. Amir had scoured the empty orphanage top to bottom but found not a trace of any Sisters. The place had been ransacked, clearly, and likely some had been kidnapped or killed in the chaos of Rapture’s civil war. An entirely urban war with all-civilian combatants. People died in horrible ways, killed their own children, butchering each other in the street…

Amir looked away from his map, eye lingering on Elizabeth for a moment before he made himself look away. He shook himself. _I wonder what Eleanor will think of Elizabeth? And Eli._

How old would Eleanor be now, anyway? _Don’t get ahead of yourself._ He would lose sight of what they needed if Amir indulged too much in hoping or looking ahead. It was far more likely that he would die in the attempt but this was likely the best chance he’d ever have. If he didn’t go with them, he’d never forgive himself. Amir had told the Detective all about Lamb’s separate testing and experimenting with Adam. And he had watched Booker find the hollow slat in his office—the man hadn’t riffled through any of it then, simply stuffed it into his pack to sort later. And then they got sidetracked by Jon and Cohen, not to mention Andrew Ryan and Jack. Holy shit, Amir really hoped Jack had gotten out somehow. Poor guy. Eleanor seemed to remember Jack so clearly. _I wonder if she will really even remember me. Maybe I’m just a name that she knew._

But, that was all right, he supposed. Amir determined himself to find her. That was what mattered. He had nothing else. Finding Eleanor, helping other kids…that gave him a reason to get up every day. 

“Fuck,” he scolded himself. “Focus, stupid.” Amir settled his dark eyes on the map, filling in details. He might actually be able to get them there underwater if Elizabeth was amiable to getting into a scuba suit. But the only person who would know for certain where Amir might enter….would be Sinclair.

Fuck. Goddammit. Of course.

He remembered Sinclair from the testing facility. His stupid smug face, smiling over paperwork that essentially handed lives over to these lunatics, to experiment on and torture and rape and abuse as they pleased. And they did. A great deal. 

It had haunted him ever since, the things he’d seen. That he hadn’t known adults would do, were even capable of doing, why would _anyone_ do this? The constant suffering of his peers, of the adults, of the poor small children. He’d had to _watch_ them turn the girls into ghouls (those designated in the Sagittarius class were trained to the pheromone scent of Little Sisters, just in case).

The whales were singing.

Amir took a deep breath and put his pen down, going back to the glass wall. He could see their massive outlines, faintly. He’d often wandered to the Observation Deck, a half-moon platform of thick, tempered glass that stuck out the side of their apartment building. Glass above and below. He loved going in at night, slipping passed cameras and security to simply sit out at the farthest edge and pretend he could swim upward and join the whales in their lonely songs. He always felt trapped in Rapture. The whales were free to swim as they could. He’d always wondered as a child, how they didn’t bang into any of Rapture’s buildings. But somehow, they didn’t. Whales must be wise, in some way. Like dragons. Every time Amir tried to imagine flying…he could only think of the schools of glittering silvery fish that often glinted around the lights of Rapture. 

Amir leaned against the glass, letting it cool his brow. “All right,” he told himself, quietly. The singing soothed him, the soft melodious tones, flexing with the water. “All right,” he said to himself, again. And then he went to his pack and pulled out their radio. He turned it on. Amir had watched Jack and Jon with their radios, noting the channels and stations. He flipped through them one at a time. Sinclair often listened to music when he had his radio on. And he should definitely have it on. 

That night’s selection appeared to be some instrumental band music. Entirely generic and typical. He monitored the line for nearly a minute before—

“Now, I see you, friend, as a blip on my line,” Sinclair’s voice filtered out of the radio.

Amir finally pressed the button. “Sinclair. It’s Amir. Heard anything from Jon?”

“Well, well, so you are alive.”

“How can I get into Persephone, Sinclair?”

“Now I’m tickled that you asked, son. Is it just you alone?”

“No.”

“Who shall be accompanying you?”

“Elizabeth Comstock, the woman.”

“Ah, indeed. Well, there is an outdoor entrance but you’d have to get a couple suits to get to it.”

“Which entrance?” Amir asked. After Sinclair told him, voice still infuriatingly smug, Amir asked his initial question again: “Have you heard from Jon?”

“We have not. Just a short conference call with Jack Ryan, apparently. Though I did hear another voice—it was another young man but it didn’t sound like Jon.”

 _That must have been Eli._ “What about Caper and Sally?”

“They haven’t entered an area in camera range yet, be patient. I’m sure that if Jack lived, then Jon did. Our boy is damn near indestructible.” 

Amir sneered. “He’s not fucking immortal, Sinclair.”

“Then I imagine you might want to wait before bringing Miss Comstock right into Persephone then. If it’s only you with her, Lamb will be quick to have you killed, boy.”

“Hey, if she’s up for a private meeting, maybe I’ll cut her throat and be done with it.”

“You get reckless, son, and you’ll die and that young lady will get drained and taken prisoner or killed. You’re smart, Amir. Smart people know not to trust me. I don’t mind that. I trust you to fight like a demon to get to Eleanor and be smart enough to not get caught within your first hundred meters, though.”

“Fine, I get it,” Amir grumbled.

“You can find equipment near any of the air locks. I presume you can get there without a problem. I’ll tell you the exact coordinates once you’re in position with Elizabeth.”

 

 

Eleanor could feel the waves coming faster. Not just once an hour, or half hour—every few minutes. Doctor Lamb barely let the Adam drain before she selected another hypo. It was almost impossible for her to reach out and wander memories during the Adam process. It was too hard on her body, her mind, her cells became too unstable. After three hours, Lamb left her, foaming at the mouth and barely breathing, to go and refill her cart. 

Lamb was in considerably better spirits after finally speaking to Sinclair. As it turned out, despite only having just regained contact with Delta, Sinclair had convinced Jack and the others to come see her. “I made good on my end, Doc,” Sinclair told her. “They’re coming along real quiet like. Now the other four, including the girl—they’re scattered in Rapture somewhere. Seems Ryan toyed around with our boy, used some pheromones on him and turned him on the others. Guess the old boy’s helm was damaged.”

“Ryan is dead, then? Truly?”

“That’s what Delta reported. And, even more interesting—that girl you want—turns out she has a brother who has the same ability.”

Lamb’s eyes sharpened greedily. “Ryan may have shut down upper Rapture but I still control Persephone. Turn all our pheromone vents on, send the Big Sisters to hunt them down. I should have just done that from the beginning.”

Sinclair hesitated there in the hallway. “I would say, doc—these folks are a real suspicious sort. It would save time and bodies to just let them come to us. They think I’m with them.”

“We no longer have any time,” Lamb snapped. “And I do not, for a moment, believe that this boy, Jack Ryan, will not attempt to kill me. So, recall Delta, escort Jack and the other, Eli, to me. As soon as the girl is within range—the Big Sisters will find her and bring her to me. Can we still count on Delta’s obedience?”

Sinclair shrugged. “Seems so to me, Doctor. He’s adhered to it so far.”

“Good. How are we on samples?”

“They’re still waiting for it to distill, Lamb. You used up half a week’s worth in one morning. Can Eleanor even take that much Adam?”

“That is not your concern, Sinclair,” Lamb said coldly. “You’ve done your part.”

“As you say, doc. Just try not to boil Eleanor’s mind into mush while you’re making her into your angel.”

 

 

“So all the little strange things I noticed in my Columbia make sense now,” Annabelle was saying as she and Booker crept down into a sewer to sneak passed a couple of wandering Big Daddies. “They still rattled on and on about the False Shepherd but it was pretty clear that they were expecting a man. So when Fink tried to have me murdered at the Good Time Club—“

Booker gave a commiserating snort and a smile. “That was a real clusterfuck.”

“Yeah,” Annabelle agreed. “The men with the coffins….they initially didn’t know what to make of me. I didn’t understand why, at the time. They must have thought I was their Lady, risen from the grave. That rumor followed me almost from the moment I arrived. Lady Comstock’s sweaty ghost spotted running the rooftops like a vagrant in Columbia! Working for or against Daisy Fitzroy, depending on who was talking!” She laughed because, to be honest, it wasn’t really that far-fetched at this point. Comparatively. “Anyway, I got the scar from one of the Handy Men. I was on a skyline and he zapped the shit out of it. I tried to disengage my skyhook and got thrown through a stained glass window. So, nothing dramatic, I’m afraid—just me failing to master my tools. Eli had to dig the glass out of my hair afterwards, poor boy.” 

“Elizabeth was like that. She had to stitch me up more than once. Probably that worst was the club and then…Lady Comstock.”

“Did she recognize you?” Annabelle asked.

“I’m….not sure. Elizabeth thought maybe she might have remembered some details about Comstock and associated it to me, not knowing we were….the, the same,” he finished awkwardly. He still didn’t like saying it. “How did she react to you?”

“Rather like Comstock did—strange pauses, extremely noticeable silence. That was when I started getting more suspicious of the Luteces. Then promised to kill me if I attempted to steal his _lamb,”_ she sneered at the thought. “Such a creep.”

“Seriously, fuck that guy,” Booker echoed. “Fuck all of them. So excited to….basically stone people to death.”

Annabelle nodded, frowning. “I stole Undertow at their fair to get by the raffle ticket machine—I found the place as they were starting. They had lit torches to throw. Horrible.”

“Yeah, they handed me a baseball. Luteces tried to warn me not pick number seventy-seven in a stupidly cryptic telegram. For all the damn good it did,” Booker grumbled. 

“Context would have been helpful, sounds like. I didn’t actually get drawn to participate. I observed and the winner picked seventy-seven and was given the first torch-throw. To burn them. That was when I interfered.”

“Wait, you skipped the door? Did the Luteces have you do a coin flip?”

She shook her head blankly. “No. I found a dark corner behind a tent and I used the Vigor to punt myself over the gate. They stopped you there?”

“Huh,” Booker mused. “Constants and variables, I guess. And you arrived in the evening rather than early afternoon. 

“They said the torches made a better show in the evening,” Annabelle frowned.

One of Booker’s ghostly crows suddenly flew over them, settling on the man’s shoulder and pecking him for blood. Booker turned his head like a hunter and froze. “We’re being followed,” he muttered. Seeing that Annabelle had advanced her control over Undertow to such a degree led him to start experimenting more with the Crows. And now he sent them scouting around and ahead of them, ghostly fragments of sight that he could close his eyes and almost _see._ They would feed on his blood, his Eve, and fly off. And now they all saw flashes and flickers of metal and stabbing weapons. “They’re ahead and behind us.”

“Who? Splicers?”

“Big Sisters,” Booker met her eyes. “At least a dozen, converging on our location.”

“We gotta set up fast,” Annabelle whirled around, scanning a massive foyer to one of the dilapidated hotels in Pauper’s Drop. A wall of glass provided a spectacular view of a deep sea trench a few hundred yards away. And also a Big Sister, floating out in the ocean. Her helm was glowing. She placed her palm on the glass, staring at them.

 _Oh, come on!_ Annabelle stepped back. “Booker.” She whirled around to grab onto him.

The Sister blasted a hole in the glass. It crackled like glacier ice, spidering up the tempered pane. Water flooded through the seams. Annabelle whipped around but the other Big Sisters were at the entrance, staring at them through the glass of the locked doors. No doubt, to stop them from trying to escape. Booker suddenly grabbed her arm, racing over to the nearest doorway and bracing his back to it. He pulled Annabelle to his chest and she wrapped one arm around him but lifted the other—

And the glass gave. Water and shards of crystal and debris shot like spears into the icy cold ocean water. But just when the wall of force would have slammed into them…it suddenly didn’t. Annabelle shuddered, whipping the water around them with Undertow in a bubble, connected to her wrists as the scars from the Vigor opened anew. “We have to do something,” she managed, unsteady as she closed her eyes to maintain the airtight seal. “I can’t maintain this for long.” 

Booker wrapped an arm around her waist and took a deep breath before he blasted through the water with Charge. Belle’s barrier of warping water drug behind them in a flush of bubbles. But she kept the seal together, allowing them both precious oxygen. She broke out in a cold sweat. Annabelle had done this before when she and Eli arrived and were separated. But it had only been for a minutes and definitely not while moving so fast. Booker was solid against her, holding her tight and shielding her as he threw them forward so she could focus on keeping them from drowning. He felt the weight of the ocean, Christ—Belle had gone pale as a sheet. She had to be holding up all that force from crushing them on willpower alone and if her Salts ran out…. 

Booker slammed them into a half-submerged pneumo-tube. Laid into the mud and as large as a man was tall to allow for maintenance crews and such, mail and packages were zipped along in and outside of Rapture’s mail hubs. Booker ripped into the metal pipe with Gravity Well (like Jon had) and they fell inside of it. The tubes around them were damp and dark but Booker paid it no attention, as he immediately pulled in with Gravity Well to close the tear in the metal. He gasped for breath and pulled back, rolling over onto his knee. “Annabelle?”

She was dizzy, limp, the whites of her eyes had bloomed with blood from burst vessels. Her ears were bleeding too. Annabelle had forced the Vigor to draw from her veins when she could no longer force the transformation without Eve.

“Annabelle? Belle? Hey, stay with me,” Booker told her, getting up on his knees and scooping her into his arms. They were both bitterly cold from the ocean water but Booker stubbornly staggered on. He carried Annabelle down the dank, dark mail sewers until he found—

A dart hitting the side of his neck. Booker jerked, immediately reaching up to grab it. A pinprick, like a bug bite. He yanked it out, a silver pin—but too late, he was already falling. “No, fuck, shit…” Annabelle rolled away onto her side, eyes empty and blank as she struggled to breath.

“Well, well,” he heard a voice murmur, sounding too pleased for his liking. “Mister Meltzer, you have certainly proven your devotion to my daughter. Perhaps I could arrange to bring Cindy to you, after all.”

“I just want to see my little girl again. Please, Doctor. Please. Let me take her home.”

“In time, perhaps. Now, come with me, Mister Meltzer. There is more to be done before I can have Cindy brought to you.”

 

 

Annabelle roused by increments. First aware of her body, hurts and tears and bleeding. Her eyes hurt. And she was cold. And she was sitting—

Belle jerked into alertness, taking in a small cell. She was strapped to a metal chair and her clothes had been changed to patient scrubs. Her hair had been washed, brushed and lay around her shoulders. There was only one source of light—the giant screen with Lamb’s face on it.

 _What the fuck happened?_ The last thing she remembered was Booker saving them—

“Booker!” Annabelle shouted, starting to test her restraints. “Booker!”

“I’m afraid Mister Dewitt won’t be joining you for this important discussion. Children are always a difficult topic and I find that it’s important to question parents separately. They sometimes don’t communicate as clearly as one might think.”

“What happened! Where is he?” Annabelle demanded, jerking against the restraints. Her damp hair sticking to her jaw. “What did you do with him!”

“Quiet, quiet, it’s all right, Ms Dewitt. I’m interested in your relationship with this Detective. A handsome one, isn’t he? And strong. I hadn’t seen you slip into Rapture with the boy.”

A security camera photograph of Eli flashed up on the screen. “Is this your son?” Lamb continued. “He has the same ability as the other one, Elizabeth, correct? So a little family of wonders appears in my holy ground as I am on the cusp of creating the first Utopian. It seems as though fate has brought you here. All of you. You may thank Mark Meltzer for our impromptu meeting. He lost his darling little girl, Cindy. And he would do _anything_ to get her back.”

Lamb pulled back and the camera focused on a man strapped down to some sort of gurney or hospital bed. He was also sitting up. “Mister Meltzer, this is Ms Annabelle Dewitt. Do you know this woman?”

“I…do not,” Meltzer stuttered. There was an odd twitch to his neck. 

“And do you recognize her husband, Detective Booker Dewitt.”

“I do not,” the man shuddered. 

Annabelle could only watch Lamb pull out a syringe. “This is Adam drawn from Mister Dewitt. Adam he _stole_ from the Family. I am going to inject it into Mister Meltzer and he will tell me about Dewitt’s memories. And we will know the truth once and for all.”

Lamb didn’t wait. There was no further ceremony as the doctor squeezed her syringe of frozen blue sludge and it raced through the tubing and into Meltzer. The man jerked, groaning as his face went slate grey. His nose started to bleed.

Uh oh. That couldn’t be good. “Lamb!” Belle shouted. “Lamb, don’t!”

“Who is Booker Dewitt?” Lamb asked, arms crossed like a severe schoolmistress. 

Mark Meltzer’s head listed against the restraints. “Man. He is a man.”

“A detective?”

“Yes,” Meltzer managed. Blood streamed down over his lips. His eyes were dazed. “But….no.”

Lamb’s mouth pinched. “What do you mean, Mister Meltzer?”

“He…there are….other. Other things. Places. He did. Other. Something.”

“Other things?” Lamb prompted, fulling stopping to watch Meltzer. 

“It’s all…all a jumble. Not where he should be.”

“What does that mean?” Lamb asked, but this time she turned her head, peering through the glass at Annabelle.

“Too many,” Mark said pitifully. He started to cry, hair disheveled and filthy. “Too many. Deaths. Too many. Fine dark hair and blood in the street.”

“In Rapture?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I mean……above _and_ below.”

“Above? You mean on the surface?”

“Yes. But no, high up in the clouds,” Mark turned his glazed blue bloodshot eyes to the white bulb hanging above him. “High in the clouds. To get. Get back. To get her back. To bring us the girl. To wipe away the debt.”

Lamb glared. “Bring someone a girl, hmm? Was it Eleanor’s father who hired them?”

Slather ran from Mark’s chin, still trembling. The dose of Adam was strong and its memories potent. He sounded like a Little Sister when questioned….like he saw or heard something that no one else could. Meltzer hadn’t realized what he’d been submitting himself to when Lamb offered him to come meet her. But all Doctor Lamb needed was one quick injection after she drugged his water. Soon as he was spliced enough, he’d go to a Big Daddy suit. But for now, he’d serve as an imperfect vessel. Lamb never spliced herself, after all, but she wanted the truth. But she didn’t want to just inject this Adam into Eleanor first without some indication that it wasn’t somehow….tainted. And this genetic memory questioning, while prone to inflicting madness and inarticulate ramblings when faced with someone else’s context that meant nothing but fragments to a stranger, it still could occasionally get answers.

“No one. She’s mine. She’s mine. You, you leave her alone….leave her be…what are you gonna….gonna do to her? _What are you gonna do to her?!”_

Lamb stared hard at him, untangling the yarn of Mark’s thoughts as he drifted in Dewitt’s memories. These experiments with the memory questioning typically weren’t quite so intense. Lamb glanced through the glass, watching the woman bow her head. “What is it, Ms Dewitt? Do his past thoughts sound pained? What is he talking about?”

The auburn-haired woman tensed in her chair and then glared back, going tight-lipped.

Lamb smiled, thin and smug. “No fear, I will simply continue to question Mister Meltzer.”

“It was her. Her. Her. The girl. The girl. Dark hair, raven wings. She stood at the _cusp of my victory!”_ Meltzer’s head jerked, like he was trying to stretch out his skull. “She stood there and, after all that time, brought _him_ back. There and back and gone and back, children with founder’s masks, screaming into the rifts. Run and run but I can’t reach…I can’t _reach.”_

Lamb stilled.

“I was him!” Mark screamed it at the Doctor, mouth and eyes red. “I was him and he was me!” Horror, sheer goddamn horror cross Meltzer’s drawn face. “I was him. He was me! _I was him! He was me!”_

The doctor looked through the glass at Annabelle. “I wonder what story _your_ Eve will tell. Perhaps pained horror and madness, like the poor detective.”

“Where _is_ he!” Belle snapped again.

The lights flicked on suddenly, blinding her momentarily. In a flash, her cell opened and two nurses came in. They held her shoulders and legs as Doctor Lamb entered. “So, Jack and his friend believe that they will inflict vengeance on me when they arrive. So they might save my daughter from her destiny. Because they do not understand the role she has in the future of mankind?”

“Probably because you’re nuts,” Annabelle told her. 

Lamb smiled indulgently at her. “Now, now, Annabelle, my statement was simply a fact of what will come to happen according to Jack’s own words. For the sake of my daughter.”

“Anna…” Mark murmured, neck limp against his restraints. “Anna….I’m sorry…..”

“Would you like to answer, Annabelle Dewitt? Would you like to answer your husband’s memories?” Doctor Lamb withdrew a syringe. “Keep her still. I’m going to inject you with Eve, Ms Dewitt, because you had used up all of yours and I need your genetic imprint, so to speak.”

Annabelle swore at her, kicked and struggled but Lamb forced the syringe into her thigh and slammed the plunger. She grit her teeth, flashing through her options before selecting Scout—

And then something else pierced the base of her skull, a jolting hot shock zapped through her, seizing away from the small pronged needle lanced into her neck. It lasted for the most agonizing minute she’d ever experienced. Her skin broke out cold and clammy, her vision blurred, stomach heaving and then Lamb pulled away. One of her nurses stayed behind.

In a twinkling, Lamb was back in the observation room with Mark Meltzer, sliding onto Annabelle’s camera feed. “Now, we must do the other, Mister Meltzer. Once again, will you please affirm that you have never met Ms Dewitt?”

“I hear too much,” Meltzer cried out, pleadingly. “I can’t—I can’t separate what happened. Memories in different places. In different things. In different people. Anya, Annabelle, Lady Comstock.”

“Seems Mister Dewitt is a popular fellow?” Lamb smirked, smug and mocking.

“You’re not going to find any answers this way,” Annabelle growled. “You’re just going to hurt the poor man!”

“He knows the price he has chosen,” Lamb assured her gently. “He will do anything to get his daughter back. You know something of that, don’t you? Elizabeth Comstock—is she your daughter? Or a bastard child of the Detective? And what about the boy, Elijah Comstock. Why the different last name?”

“Elizabeth,” Meltzer’s throat sagged, rolling back up to stare vacantly at Annabelle. “Elizabeth! I’m coming….Elizabeth…I…you leave her alone. You don’t hurt her. Anyone.” He shuddered for breath. 

Lamb injected him again. It was awful to watch as Meltzer writhed, groaning on his gurney, blood bubbling out of his nose again. 

“The boy is her son, correct?” Lamb said sharply to Meltzer. 

“Boy, my boy, my little boy. Poor little boy. Brave and quiet. Elijah. Elijah. Trade the boy for vengeance. For vengeance. For vengeance! For vengeance—“

“Yes, I get it.” Lamb waved a hand. “Are both children hers?”

“Not the girl. Girl is not the other’s and the boy is not his. But in other places, other visions or lighthouses…”

Lamb studied the man hard before turning to glare at Annabelle. “What does he mean, other places?”

Annabelle lifted her nose and turned her wrists over under the leather restraints so she could flip Lamb off with both hands.

The nurse zapped her with the pronged needle again. Meltzer screamed instead of Annabelle. “We died so many times!” Meltzer sobbed. “Died and died and dead.”

_Died. Dies. Will die._

 

 

 

Amir helped Elizabeth check her diving suit, making sure the seal was airtight before he stepped into the airlock. The huge metal door closed and water cycled in around them. He could hear Elizabeth’s breathing, shallow and terse. She was nervous. “Hey, I’ve done this tons of times. I’ll be with you. It’ll be all right.”

Her crystal blue eyes met his for just a flicker. “I….ha….I’ve jumped buildings at death-defying heights. But I’ve never….” She gestured to the ocean in its entirety. “What will we do if we’re attacked? I don’t want to slow you down, Amir—“

“Elizabeth, you’re not. And you won’t. We’ll keep to the shadows as much as we can and I have the Camouflage tonic. Do you?”

“No,” she managed quietly. The cold water flooded around her knees.

“That’s okay, here,” Amir said. He kept his voice calm, low and soothing. If growing up an orphan in Rapture had taught him anything, it was to keep calm. And, by extension, keep others calm. Amir could not understand her fear, just like he could not understand the concept of ‘death-defying heights’. But he understood fear of death. So he pulled out an empty hypo and pushed the syringe into his Eve port.

“Amir, no—wait—“

“It’s fine. I’ve done this before. It’s less clean than buying it,” Amir told her, “but we’ve made due. Fortunately, all diving suits in Rapture have these ports.” The syringe locked and Amir held the brace of the syringe with that same hand and used his right to draw back. He grunted when he felt the stab and watched his blood sprint into the hypo’s chamber. Just enough for Camouflage to be extracted from his genetic code, so long as Elizabeth had Eve in _her_ blood. Which she likely did. She used the Plasmids far less than Booker. “Okay, there’s the syringe,” Amir told her quietly, turning her left arm of her diving suit and pushing the needle in. “Now, remember, Camouflage is the one you need. Camouflage.” He pushed in the plunger.

Something in her eyes clouded over and Amir took an instinctive step towards her, holding her arms as a racking tremble went through her. “Camouflage,” she murmured to herself. “Your memories of Camouflage.”

She flickered out of sight, then reappeared. The girl started a little, taking a shaking breath.

“Are you all right?” Amir asked, noting the water finally reaching her breasts and braced himself for that cold to reach his lungs. “If we get separated and attacked, I will lead them away. You should continue on to Persephone.”

“I’m not leaving you to die,” the girl said, blue eyes flashing with anger.

“If something happens out here, you hide and then you continue. Sinclair will give you instructions.” Amir turned away to face the airlock gate as the water reached her collarbones.

She grabbed his hand. “Amir! If something happens to you—“

“It’ll be all right,” Amir told her. “You’re smart.” He felt her grip tighten as the water reached the helm and visor. So Amir clutched back. Elizabeth was just nervous. Just nervous. The water went over her helm and poured over his. Amir gently tugged her to start walking with him and they exited the airlock.

The outside had been severely disrupted by Rapture’s construction but the sea life was slowing adapting around it. The strange little sea slugs were fairly common—though seemingly moreso around some of the large, finned fans that pumped air into the ocean. The sense of slow weightlessness was a double-edged sword out here, alone in the cold at the bottom of the sea. 

The radios in both of the diving suits buzzed. “Well, well,” Sinclair said, his now-familiar twang sounding a touch terse. “You made it out. Amir, you are gonna wanna high-tail it, son.”

“What’s wrong?” 

“Well," Sinclair cleared his throat, "unbeknownst to me, Doctor Lamb came across and employed the services of a Mark Meltzer, who came to Rapture looking for his daughter.”

“Goddammit,” Elizabeth grumbled.

“And?” Amir pressed, a resigned sigh as he expected bad news.

“And….he was tailing young Elizabeth’s father through the mail tunnels.”

Elizabeth felt all her fear evaporate. “Lamb has Booker?”

Sinclair was stilted in his silence for a moment, almost apologetic. “And a woman named Annabelle. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Fuck,” Amir grunted softly, shaking his head. 

Elizabeth took a deep breath and stepped forward onto the muddy paths between buildings. “Lead us to Persephone, Sinclair. I’ve just about had it with these megalomaniacs with delusions of grandeur.”


	20. Game On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> REM - Losing My Religion: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xwtdhWltSIg&list=PLQuOKHNudkmd8XwtZosj0WXzYWpuHjTxz&index=92
> 
> \--------------------------------  
> Poole went the color of milk. “I did what I had to for the story. For the truth.”
> 
> Jon glanced out the door. “Eli, I believe this man may have information that could be of use to us.”  
> \--------------------------------

_Tap. Tap tap._

They got up as a group. Caper and Sally raised their helms and bladed gauntlets. Eli hefted his crossbow, Jon’s security bots came buzzing over to them and Jack raised two pistols as the shimmering armor of Winter Blast spread in fractals across his hands.

_Tap. Tap tap._

And out of the dark, emerged the figure of a woman, wearing her best hat and tapping a cane as she shadowed out of the gloom. 

Jon started. “Grace Holloway.”

A handsome older woman, was the singer from the Blue Velvet, dark of tone with warm amber eyes. She was ragged, haggard. Her yellow skirt was smattered with blood. She peered back at Jon curiously. At her side, Lorna stepped into view. “Jack-Jack!” 

“Lorna!” Jack lowered his weapons immediately, dropping to one knee with a grin. She immediately raced over to him for a hug. “Is Grace a friend of yours?”

“Aunt Gracie, remember? She knew Eleanor! So I brought her to you.” Lorna beamed.

Jack looked up at Grace. “Ma’am, my name is Jack.”

“I know who you are, young man,” the woman said, not accusatory at all, but rather like she were just very tired. “I been watching, when I could. Then Delta surfaced and he let me live. And Lorna came to me and she told me all about you and Dewitt and you good folks looking for Eleanor. And well, I don’t know what to make of Delta sparing me but I know it was Lamb who lied to me. I want to help you into Persephone.” The woman opened her pocketbook and pulled out a map. “Bring me a crate there, young man,” Gracie told Eli. He obeyed automatically, sweeping off some dirt and then putting more kindling on the fire.

Jon brought her a sturdy chair and a cushion.

“Oh thank you, honey,” Gracie drawled, graciously nodding to Jon. She got a better look at him as the fire flared with more chair pieces. “You been through a lot, aintcha?” She reached out and, in the curious way gentle older women could, placed her wrinkled palm on his stubbled jaw to stop him in his tracks. “You see it in the eyes. All of you.”

The three young men and two girls exchanged looks. 

“You got separated from Mister D?” Lorna asked them. “And Big Sister Elizabeth.”

“Do you know Amir?” Gracie asked the five of them as she opened up her map and flattened it out. “That boy got a lot of friends in lower Rapture. Lot of children that boy saved. Tyla and Sven come to me. Tell me Amir disappeared in Fort Frolic. They picked up his genetic signature again in Hephaestus.” Gracie pointed at her map. It was well-worn and old, covered in meticulous notes. “But they can only track his distance from there and plot it on a map. They think he may have gone outside.”

“If Amir hits it from within and we hit it from the front….” Jack mused, studying the map. 

“Is anyone with him?” Eli asked. “What about Elizabeth? Or Annabelle?”

Gracie shook her head. “I’m sorry, young man. I don’t know about either of them. Just this boy here, Jack. Son of Andrew Ryan, the rumor tells. But even you won’t be able to get to Persephone by sphere. Lamb still controls that entire building. The closest you can get by sphere is Hephaestus. But in Dionysus Park, Lamb had some tunnels built into the bedrock.” Grace traced her finger the long distance. “Stanley Poole flooded the Park so Lamb can’t get back in from the north side. But you all could from the south side.” 

Lorna padded over to Caper and Sally. “You gotta find Mister D.” Her curly hair had been put into two pigtails. She looked healthier, not so skinny. No longer grey. 

“From the Apollo Square hub?” Jack asked Grace.

“Just the one,” Gracie told them, crooking a finger at them all. “Underneath Apollo Square is where the original train was built. You leave from there and head north to the Park. It’s all underwater tunnels that were used for the train. Now it’s been abandoned.”

“So there’s probably some real horrors down there,” Eli guessed.

“I couldn’t say. I wish I could come with you but I can’t. Lorna and I will go and tell Amir’s friends. Some have started heading for the old Fontaine building. Some sayin there’s a way out. Can’t say I believe it none.”

“That’s what Diane Locke told us,” Jack replied. “And Tenenbaum, Langford and Porter are all in Olympus Heights.”

“Names I know but never met. Could be my little Lorna can lead me. I’m old inside, boys, but I’ll do anything to see the sunlight again.”

“We’ll get to Eleanor,” Jack told her, “so you go with Lorna and find the doc. You guys should probably prepare to move to the Fontaine building.”

“I’ll pass the word,” Grace thanked him. “If you find her, young man, I’ll whack Lamb with this cane myself but you save Eleanor and I’ll kiss you as a saint. That little sweet deserved so much better than she got.” Grace opened her pocketbook again and drew out two vials. “These will help you all get by the initial security.”

Jack frowned. “Sally, Caper…..maybe you two should go—“

Two sets of stone-hard eyes went to him instantly. Caper’s goldish-green and Sally’s ocean-blue burned at him. 

“I came back to help,” Caper said, dark and terse. 

“I want Doctor Lamb to die,” Sally growled.

“All right, everybody,” Eli stepped into the middle of the group. “Let’s all just take a sample from each vial of Eve. We need all the help we can get. We’re already in too far to ask anyone to turn back now.”

Grace patted Eli’s arm. “Let the Little Sisters prick you, honey. They got a practiced hand.”

Lorna hopped over with her injector and unscrewed the glass chamber. Sally and Caper crowded close, almost unable to help it. Eli crept forward too, though he simply knelt across from Lorna to watch. Grace handed the little girl the vials and Lorna had no hesitation in opening each. She mixed them, watching the blue swirl with its smeared purple traces of blood. 

Caper and Sally offered their arm ports. First Caper, then took it to inject Sally. Sally then gestured for it before turning to Jack and Jon. The two men took theirs silently. Jon kept his gaze on the floor. Sally hesitated for an off moment before she snatched Eli’s arm. She expertly inject the needle into him. The two vials appeared to be Grace herself and a doctor that Eli had only heard about, Gil Alexander. 

“Hey, by the way,” Eli said carefully, “Thanks for shoving me out of the fire up in Ryan’s office.”

“Well, don’t use attacks that can hurt you too, moron,” Sally snapped and turned away.

Eli fought back a small smile.

 

 

 

“When did Annabelle meet Mister Dewitt?”

Mark Meltzer was still sobbing, eyes bloodshot. “1889, every time. Doesn’t make sense. But every time. 1889. But not this one. She met him here. She found him here. All the feeling dropped out.”

Lamb glared at Annabelle through the observation room camera. “I told you that you wouldn’t get any answers this way!” The auburn-haired woman shouted, eyes angry like a thundercloud. 

“Then tell me why he is confused,” Lamb said simply, raising her eyebrows in cool condescending, growing irritation. Mark Meltzer should get the genetic signature of this Booker Dewitt and he would then remember it. But Meltzer didn’t seem to see just one life….but several. That had never happened before. Ever. Adding the woman’s immediately after had apparently not helped as it made Meltzer’s addled rambling much worse. 

“Goddammit! I’ve been to other universes!”

Lamb turned away from Meltzer. “Universes?”

The woman glanced at the thuggish nurse next to her with his electrode pin. “Meltzer is hearing the combination of all of our other selves. You’ve basically subjected him to madness.”

“Other selves? All at once?”

“Realize what a clusterfuck that is, yet? You just crammed millions of our memories over multiple realities into his DNA.” 

“Yes….and unprocessed. I am pleased I had the chance to test this from the parents first. For the children though, I will need something more refined, I think. They are the ones who can open the tears, correct?” Lamb watched something dark and murderous cross the woman’s face. 

“You fuck with them and it will be the last mistake you make today.”

“Then I imagine they won’t like what I’ve done with their father.”

“You fucking _cunt!”_ Annabelle seethed at her.

“No call to be crass, Mrs Dewitt.”

“No need to be a psycho that tortures kids, Mrs Lamb!”

The door to Meltzer’s chamber screeched open and another man entered. This one soft and greasy, dark haired and round-faced. He was a good six inches shorter than Lamb. His jowls wobbled. 

“Ah, Doctor Alexander. You have been watching the process; do you believe these samples can be refined further?”

“We will do our best to extract as much Adam from them as possible. I can run it through our stabilizer a few times. Suchong left extensive notes about his research.”

“And what about Mister Dewitt?”

“The samples we’ve taken from him so far are very interesting, to say the least. His body consumes Eve in a far different way than we are accustomed to seeing. And the tears that Doctor Suchong saw before his death seem likely to be connected to the tears created by Subjects One and Two. It is possible they are like…windows, per se. Sound is able to travel through but I have not attempted to enter physically.”

“Ah, I see….” Lamb mused, turning to look through the observation window at Annabelle again. “Maybe you can help me then, Doctor.”

“Of course, Doctor Lamb.” Gil wiped his face with a kerchief, fiddling with his lab coat.

“The woman claimed that their genetic imprint also has the imprints of all other versions of themselves from other realities.”

Gil looked over, observing the pretty auburn-haired woman, who looked mad enough to spit nails and was sporting a black eye. “This is the female subject, Dewitt?”

“The female _version_ of the man?” Lamb asked, looking astonished.

“No.” Annabelle rolled her eyes. 

“Not necessarily,” Gil said. “Her genetic imprint _is_ different from the male. But Detective Dewitt was not married during his time in Rapture. The last anyone had heard from him was the New Years’ Eve attacks. According to information taken from Ryan’s personal security file in Minerva’s Den, it was wirelessly accessed a few days ago and a massive load of data transferred and copied. He was looking for information—at least, that’s what our spies tell me. He found very little about the Detective.”

“So, just posing then?” Lamb offered, looking down her fine pointed nose at Annabelle.

“I didn’t know,” Meltzer moaned suddenly. His voice croaked. “I was taken by surprise. Hadn’t seen my Annabelle in….in so _so_ long. I didn’t want to hurt her. She’s still _good._ Don’t _hurt her!”_

Doctor Alexander looked through the glass. The prisoner had lowered her eyes to keep her expression to herself. “So, I suppose the more correct question is: which version of Booker Dewitt was with you, Ms Dewitt?”

“Ms Watson to you, thanks,” Annabelle growled at him. “I tried to tell her—but she has gone A-plus sociopath—“

The nurse jabbed the pronged needle into her neck again. 

 

 

 

Grace walked with them to the Apollo Square hub. Lorna hugged Jack, Jon and even Eli one more time and made them all promise to find Mister D before she took Grace’s hand and headed for the bathysphere. 

Jon bashed down the maintenance door.

“Why didn’t you tell her that you were Delta?” Jack asked the former Big Daddy.

Jon looked over his shoulder at them and just shook his head, shrugging his big shoulders. Eli exchanged a sympathetic look with Jack. Sally slipped ahead of Jon as she and Caper scouted ahead. They tossed each room they came across for supplies and then came to a large, heavy iron grating.

Jon, Eli and Jack all went to it but it was the former-Delta who lifted his palm. It had turned hard and black as his hair from Gravity Well. Jon curled his fingers into the air and _ripped._ The gate rattled, straining and then _slammed_ to the right. 

“You have a lot more control over that than most of us do,” Jack said quietly.

“In my experience, most have one that they prefer to use over others. A preference.”

“Does that say something about our personalities?” Eli laughed.

“It’s going to be very dark,” Caper said, looking into the dark mouth of the underwater tunnel. She turned on a flashlight that was mounted to her helm. Sally did the same. 

“There is a large chance that parts of this will be flooded to some degree. It would be wise for us to take some of the diving gear,” Jon advised. “If nothing else it will help with the cold.”

So once suited up and armed, books sealed up and tucked away, they unloaded all the handguns they had between them. Jack hid the magazines inside his diving suit’s waterproof workpack. Jon took the pistols themselves to keep dry. Jack kept his machine gun free, Eli kept his crossbow and rifle on his back and Jon kept his rivet gun. 

They descended into the tunnels. They were very dark and icy cold. Jon listed towards any bowing beams, automatically repairing two before he seemed to realize it. Caper stalked next to Jack. Sally glared up at Eli before haunting the space next to him. 

It took several hours to get to Dionysus Park and upon arrival, they ran into one Stanley Poole. He locked himself inside the train terminal initially. That is, until Jon directed the others to use Gravity Well with him. The thick metal door bent under the magnetic strain of four people using it on one object. The door cracked and Caper wedged herself inside. 

“Wait wait wait wait wait!” Poole pleaded, cowering back as Caper advanced on him. “All right, all right! I’ll give you the key. It will take you through the maintenance doors and—“

Caper summoned Crows. She must have gotten it from a sample when she healed Dewitt. The birds shrieked, diving and pecking, gorging on blood as Poole screamed and flailed.

And then the men got the door open and Jon stepped in. “Stop, Caper! Stop.”

Caper scowled and the birds flew back, clustering around her. 

“Look, here!” Poole threw the keys at them, along with the contents of his pockets and his pack of supplies. “There, see!”

Jack picked them up off the floor. “You stay here until we’re gone. And then you can get the hell out of here. Head for the Fontaine building if you wanna try and escape with Diane Locke and the others.”

Jon watched the squirrely reporter. _Poole. Where have I heard that name before?_

_("Get that journalist, Stan Poole to do a piece about him, an adventure-seeker’s discovery of Rapture.")_

“You worked for Doctor Lamb for a time,” Jon said quietly.

Poole went the color of milk. “I did what I had to for the story. For the truth.”

Jon glanced out the door. “Eli, I believe this man may have information that could be of use to us.”

“No no no!” Poole objected, pressing against the back wall as Eli entered the small room. Those hard jade eyes fixed on him. “I gave you what I have! Just lemme go, huh? Lemme go.”

“Just stay still, sir,” Eli told him. “Sally, come get an Eve sample from him, please.” 

The former Little Sister came to his side. 

“Hey, look, is it information you want? Cause I mean, yeah, I worked with Lamb. What’d’ya wanna know, champ? I’ll cooperate.”

“I don’t need your cooperation.” Eli opened Stanley’s doors. Jack froze the journalist’s feet to the floor and Sally whisked up and jabbed him. 

_He sold her to the orphanage._

That familiar idea, stealing a child—Eli bristled all over. “He’s the one that had Eleanor kidnapped from Grace Holloway and sold to the orphanage.”

Jon’s grey eyes hollowed out, looking at the floor to take some deep breathes. The rage was immediate, bubbling up in him, commanding him to kill this slimy son of a bitch. For no reason at all, he thought of Dewitt. Annabelle, specifically—Jon had seen her eyes. Annabelle had gone to her city for revenge. She knew how the thought of it could bite into a person and poison them.

But when she decided she’d rather keep the boy than get revenge, it changed her. “I let it go,” she’d said softly one night, taking their turn on watch. “It’s one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made and yet....it wasn't. It came easier than I expected. I decided I’d rather have Eli than someone to kill.” Annabelle chuckled. “In the end, it didn’t matter, of course. It was all a setup. But at the time, I thought it was real.”

_I don’t want to be a Big Daddy anymore._

Jon took a deep breath and calmed. He walked out of the terminal. The others followed, leaving Poole there to do as he would.

Draining the building took only swiping a keycard Poole had given them and a code number that Eli saw in Stanley’s memories. It would take hours for the building to completely drain, of course, but the first floor, at least, cleared quickly. They did a full sweep and then Jon and Eli slammed a metal gated door open.

“I remember this,” Jon said suddenly, softly. “…..I remember this entrance.”

“Did Lamb ever bring you here as a bodyguard or something?” Eli inquired.

“…..she must have,” Jon mused, looking around himself again before stepping to the entrance. “I was in the suit then….but I remember…”

He went first, Sally followed him, Eli followed her, then Caper and Jack. They went single file, down creaking metal steps. They plinked with drips of water and coughed red rust onto their shoes. The farther down they went, the colder it became. Jon’s boots met wet concrete and he used Incinerate to light up the immediate area. Abandoned, desolate, mostly carnage from wrecked train cars, the under-station was creepy. There were bodies in the three offices. The Sisters drained them for their Eve and Adam before they moved on. The tunnels surfaced from the gloom as their eyes adjusted, ominous and gaping like a maw. 

“This being underwater shit is awful,” Eli said, perhaps a little too jokingly.

“You’re not claustrophobic, are you?” Jack wanted to know.

“I just—being under all this water kind of makes me nervous,” Eli admitted, giving Jack a crooked smile. 

How many hours they were in the tunnels, no one was certain. Too long, no matter what, according to Eli. They stopped in a maintenance room to rest at some point. They ate what little food they had and sipped some water. 

Finally, they surfaced into the under-station of Persephone. An old metal lift, rattling and ominous, clattered down to them when Jon automatically seemed to go to an inconspicuous chain hanging by a curtained shaft. 

“This is what Grace meant. This elevator will only unlock for Lamb’s closest circle. All of us will be able to use it now.” He placed his palm on the Adam reader and it flashed green. The lift door opened.

“Do you remember where this will take us?” Eli asked.

“The upper maintenance levels of Persephone. Lamb had a private elevator for herself, me and Eleanor. And any prisoners she wanted to work with.”

“Then let’s get out of this shit and get our weapons ready,” Jack suggested pointedly, unlatching his diving suit and peeling it off. 

 

 

 

Booker was running. Skidding around a brick corner and nearly crashing into an alley. He saw the Tear. _That_ tear, from the night he’d lost Eli.

No. Elizabeth.

But when he reached it, there was no Comstock, no Lutece. There was a young lady looking back at him from the other side with big blue eyes and dark hair. But it wasn’t Elizabeth. No, it was someone else. She seemed so _familiar…._

And then she _screamed—_

That was what jerked him into awareness. The screaming. He could still hear it as he immediately tried to get up. His restraints were heavy leather straps and metal cuffs. The detective seemed to be strapped down to some sort of worktable. _Oh goddammit, what the hell!_

Damn, Columbia had been a clusterfuck but Rapture was a goddamn nightmare. The sheer magnitude of the terrible shit that had gone down six miles deep. Never again. Never the fuck again.

Right, so he appeared to be in a cell. His eyes adjusted to several tilted screens above him. Screen One appeared to be a woman, a short man and another man strapped to a table. Screen Two was—

“Annabelle!” He said it reflexively; regardless, no one heard him. He could only watch the feed. She sneered and swore at Lamb.

And then he heard the man in the bed wail: _”Don’t hurt him! If you hurt him I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking murder you, Comstock!”_

Annabelle stiffened on the screen. 

“Take more blood samples from Dewitt and the woman, distill what we can out of it. The other two are the goal but we can keep their samples in reserve, just in case. We’ll need to keep them alive for now to see if we can use their Adam without inflicting madness.”

“As you know, Sofia, I would be honored to test a more refined sample before risking Eleanor.”

Lamb smiled indulgently at Doctor Alexander. “I believe that that time has indeed come for your selfless dedication to our ideals. These four are the ones we have been waiting for. This proves, like nothing else, that my beliefs are correct and we will be reborn with Eleanor dictating the good for every person in Rapture. Jack will make an excellent bodyguard.”

“How can you do this to your own daughter!” Annabelle suddenly shouted from Screen Two. 

“My daughter has a _destiny._ Not so easily brushed aside. She is the culmination of my life’s work—“

“You’re a _mother_ for fuck’s sake! You’re supposed to _love_ Eleanor, not torture her!”

Sofia tittered and touched the glass sympathetically. “I feel no guilt and there is no torture in giving Eleanor the incredible gifts that Rapture has to offer. Should I not want the best for my daughter?”

Booker went cold. _Just like fucking Comstock._

“What about Eleanor’s father! Where is he? Did he have any say? You have him chained up somewhere too?”

“He is far beyond your reach or mine. That is what I preferred. His role was the conception, nothing more. As a physical specimen, he was very healthy. I never told him, of course. And I left the surface before I gave birth the Eleanor.” Lamb peered at her. “What is it that you’re so afraid of? I will not bring your son to harm. I mean them no ill will. I simply need an imprint of their genetic code. If they intend to harm Eleanor, which I don’t believe they do, I will protect her. I must.”

“She’s not a _thing!”_

Lamb seemed to dismiss the notion, turning back to the other man. “Take whatever samples you need, Gil. Refinement will take several hours. Keep Dewitt sedated, if possible. From what I’ve seen, he’s quite formidable. And take a sample from Mister Meltzer as well. He has Adam from both now.”

“Of course, Sofia,” Gil uttered, scampering for a new hypo.

It took both of the nurses to hold Annabelle down until they stuck her with something that made her scream in agony and rage. But Lamb was able to force Belle’s arm and Gil slid his syringe in. 

Booker’s grip on the chair tightened like a white-gripped vice until Gil left the screen. Of course, he must be returning from wherever he’d been. Booker’s eyes flashed over the timestamp on the video feed (12:48:56). 

_Okay. Think. I’ve been in tougher spots than this._

Wherever that video feed was in relation to this cell—he doubted it was far. But he was strapped down with leather and metal. The only door must be behind his gurney somewhere. He had no Eve left, he could feel that. Jesus Christ. Okay, so— 

He heard a rumble and a door opened. The round-faced man appeared from the left, metal footsteps rattling around the empty laboratory. “Ah, you are awake, Mister Dewitt.”

“Where is she? Where is that room?” Booker spit.

Doctor Alexander stabbed him with a hypo, threading a bloodpack to an IV. “Doctor Lamb would like several rounds of testing done. Soon, you will be added to our—“

“That _child_ is not your messiah! Lamb is _using_ you!”

Doctor Gil chose not to respond. He silently attached another drip and filled vial after vial, until Mister Dewitt was fighting to stay conscious. The brute of a man kept trying to engage him even as he was getting woozy. Given his aggressive nature, Gil took his blood before adding clean Adam. The doctor was certain that, if given any Eve, Dewitt would attack—just like Ms Watson had tried to. Adding the Adam afterwards was safer to his person, though potentially less potent. Samples were best when fresh from the source but he had to make due.

He left the detective lethargic, barely conscious from all the blood loss. “She can’t see or hear you,” Gil told him absently, nodding up to indicate Annabelle. “She has no idea where you are. Do you appreciate how worried she is about you? Your son—is he your son? He does not yet know you are here. Jack Ryan claims he will tear this place apart to find Eleanor.” The doctor shook his head. “I suppose Sofia must have it under control…surely Sinclair wouldn’t be stupid enough to betray her. The man can’t be trusted. He’s greedy. But greedy men are easy to manipulate.”

“And what did it take you to decide that experimenting on kids was better?”

The doctor’s somber eyes went up and then away. “I regret my part in making Eleanor what she is. If I had known it was her….”

“Oh, you would have spared one little girl. How many other helpless little girls did you brutalize?”

“I know that you have no understanding of the true work Lamb is trying to achieve. We don’t have to understand.”

“You have an _obligation_ to understand!”

“She is singular, Doctor Lamb. Do you understand?” Gil said intently. “She is the only one who truly understands, who will take the risks for the betterment of—“

“You fucking coward. You piece of shit—“

“We all have our part to play, Mister Dewitt. This is mine. I want to _see_ these memories of yours. So let’s start from the beginning.”

“Fuck you.”

“Which version of Annabelle is she? The detective was unmarried when he lived in Rapture.”

Booker glared at him, silent.

Alexander studied him. “You aren’t from Rapture, are you?”

The stubborn man was a rock.

“It does you no good to hold back now, Dewitt. It will only harm you and Annabelle.” Gil scraped a chair across the metal tile, sitting next to Booker’s gurney. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” 

Those hard jade eyes turned cold and hateful. 

“Hard but beautiful, weathered like a diamond. Is she another version of your actual wife? It must be very difficult to be around her, to listen to her pain, to listen to Mister Meltzer rant and rave your memories aloud. The children—are they brother and sister, truly?”

Booker’s face was unflinching. 

“Mister Dewitt, I don’t want to have to resort to torture. I do not have the stomach for it. ”

Booker curled his lip. “You better find it then, pal.”

“……as you wish.”

”No!” Mark Meltzer shrieked on Screen One. _“Give me back my daughter!”_

 

 

 

Natalia, Sven, Tyla, Jaime, Hiromi, Hamidi and Vincent were all older kids, teenagers that had worked closely with Amir at some point or another. Their parents had been from all different parts of the world but most of them spoke a common language. Hiromi’s English had improved a great deal after Tyla had found her and brought her to their little base, though when she talked in her sleep it was still in Japanese. But everyone still helped her. They helped each other. Unlike the horrible adults that had come here to see who they could fuck over—their children were running from slavery and exploitation. They helped each other.

And now these seven led the march to the singular public entrance to Persephone. It was inaccessible because of Lamb. A single lonely corridor locked down, sealed and guarded by security bots. Grace had told them about Jack and the others. If they were going in to help Amir, than they could do nothing less than lend a hand. So the eldest, the strongest, the fastest went with Tyla and the others. Grace took the younger children and headed for the Fontaine building. Tenenbaum, Langford and Porter all went with her. 

Natalia had passed out all the artillery they had. Jaime took over the explosives. Hamidi was prepping Eve hypos and plasmids (Langford had sent them Insect Swarm), while Sven got everyone’s gear ready. Vincent was checking over all the electronics and radios, night vision goggles and rope. Hiromi prepared the maps and schematics and Tyla planned their approach and route. Single public entrance, sure, but their intent was to distract Lamb. They didn’t need to break in so much as make Lamb think they were trying to.

A line of children of various ages whispered like shadows through the vents, hallways and corridors of Rapture. All converging at a single point in a large glass domed room that branched in several directions. To the east was Hephaestus. To the west, Persephone. 

Sven produced a gauntlet he’d taken off a Big Sister. It was the only thing they had that could override the air locks manually. His Russian blue eyes lifted to Tyla. “Game on?”

“Game on.”


	21. Persephone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Personal Jesus: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-9okF0_m1EQ&t=0s&list=PLQuOKHNudkmd8XwtZosj0WXzYWpuHjTxz&index=6
> 
> \-----------------------------  
> But Caper only jammed her injector into the doctor, slurping Eve from her. “You said you didn’t splice,” Caper murmured. “But you did. Just one. So you could hurt Jon. So you could hurt Jon. So you could tell _lies._ Tell all kinds of lies. So you could hurt and make other people hurt.”
> 
> \-----------------------------

Jon surfaced into an office via trap door. It was hidden behind a giant painting of Doctor Lamb and her daughter (about four, at the time). He remembered this. He remembered it: usually it was only him and the Doctor when they came to Persephone. He was her bodyguard. He lumbered next to her, blank and mute, killing on command. Because back then, Eleanor was almost a teenager but still genetically attached to him, and he to her. It helped Doctor Lamb keep both of them calm. She didn’t care if Eleanor saw Delta as a father-figure. She was a child and, ultimately, her compliance wasn’t really a factor. Of course, Lamb would prefer the girl’s cooperation, hence she kept Delta nearby. But, as Jon had seen when Lamb began forcibly sedating Eleanor, the doctor no longer saw her daughter. Just a tool. A canvas for the doctor to paint on. To mold her into her own image.

And then it turned out that Eleanor didn’t want to be molded.

And the older Eleanor got, the more Delta preferred the child’s orders over Lamb’s. The doctor had ordered him to find the girl, Elizabeth Comstock. But it was Eleanor who impressed upon him: _Try not to fight. I want to talk to her. She might be able to help us, Father_

That was the order he remembered. It had all gone awry by accident. When his suit’s computer picked up a matching genetic signature to the Comstock girl, Delta had come upon two people. He approached but then the woman got in his way, demanding he stop. He simply shoved her aside, reaching for the boy. Strange that his signature appeared to be the one—

Then the woman fired shots and his conditioning took over.

Jon shook himself. He wasn’t being controlled like that anymore. He wasn’t. They understood. Annabelle had _told_ him she understood. And Eli did, Jon could…tell, he supposed. The boy was quiet, guarded, reserved but fierce and dependable. He was steady in a fight and he tried to help them all. And he had a strange sort of glow to him, a strange presence.

“Now where?” Jack prompted, his machine-gun was at low-ready. 

Jon led the others down a long corridor to a second lift. Sally and Caper spidered out to scout around, silent and swift. 

“Damn, if Amir got in without using this route, he must be agile as a monkey or something,” Jack mused as Jon scanned his palm.

“He is,” Eli agreed. “I ran into him in Hephaestus. He knows Rapture inside and out.”

“Let’s hope his friends are half as wily as he is,” Jack sighed. 

“Like you’d know anything about them,” Sally sneered, rolling her eyes. “You didn’t grow up here.”

Jack took a deep breath, to remind himself to be patient.

“C’mon, Sally, we’re all on the same team,” Eli said idly as they entered the lift. 

It rumbled, creaked and then began to ascend. When the lift shuddered to a stop, Jon stepped out first. He whirled to his left. “Two Big Sisters—can we try not to kill them!”

Eli dashed forward, clearly surprising the two sprinting Sisters when he suddenly stepped out of the elevator. One was able to dodge around him. The other blundered right into him. Eli whipped around her to shoot the girl with one of the sleeping darts. She fell like a stone.

Jack stepped out too, nailing the other Sister with a matching dart. He knelt between them, taking a wrist in each hand and all three of them lit up with Adam glow. They moved the girls into the elevator and left them there. 

_(Father? Father! Father! I feel you! Help me! Please help me! Please help—)_

Jon shuddered, walking faster, faster. These were Lamb’s private quarters and so Eleanor’s room was just on the left. Yes, he remembered clearly. Because the last time he’d been here, Jon had heard Eleanor’s screaming. Her helpless, pained _screaming—_

The big man stopped outside the door.

“Jon….?” Eli asked quietly, watching him closely. 

“This is the room,” Jon managed. He reached out, fingertips skimming along the metal. “She’s here.” 

Caper looked up at Jon too. “She’s waiting for you.” 

“I don’t know the code,” Jon’s voice stumbled a little, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know the code!” He said again, looking at the electric lock.

“Jon, it’s all right. Just stay calm, buddy. It’s okay,” Eli advised him carefully. The Comstock boy studied the panel and then, swimming through his memories, searching, _willing_ one where he’d already been here….

But there was nothing. _Am I the first?_ He saw the single lighthouse in his head for a moment, the swooping light flashing—

“I have no echoes of this door. But I know that _you_ must, Jon. Before I helped Doctor Porter, Tenenbaum gave me an Eve hypo that she said contained a sample of his genetic code. And after that, I was able to use him as an anchor, to change him back to his original human body. I wondered if it was simply a kind of universal association, an alternate I may have known of Porter—but I also know that I never really tried healing anyone that wasn’t Bea. But if that’s the way this works, then if I take a genetic sample from you via Eve, then I will be able to bring through a door that _you_ went through when it was open. Not just see it, like when I look in people’s memories for information. I’ll be able to _use_ it.”

“Holy shit, man,” Jack mused. 

Jon nodded. “Sally, would you?” He offered his left arm.

Sally flipped her injector around and jabbed herself with it, filling it halfway and then stabbing Jon. She brimmed it with his blood and Eve, swirling with her own. The ex-Little Sister then went to Eli. She studied him for a long moment before she injected him.

Eli shuddered, coughed and closed his eyes. The others could only watch the boy’s nose start to bleed, and Jack took an uneasy step towards him. They all heard a strange crackling sound: Eli’s shaggy hair, ragged shirt and jacket lifted with his power, flaring green around him. The air pulled inward—

And a tear appeared before them, the door in it was unlocked. He would be opening a Door of an actual door. It flashed into existence. “C’mon!” Eli hopped through it. 

The others followed. 

Eli had honestly been expecting laser sensors and security deathbots or something. But nothing greeted them in the room beyond. Just quiet. And a weirdly childish bedroom. But there, in the middle, strapped down, was a young woman. 

“Eleanor,” Jon murmured. That seemed to propel him, moving across the room and starting to examine the restraints. 

Jack went to the machine by her bed, pushing the big red STOP button. An Eve hypo was packed into some sort of distribution chamber. Jack yanked it out and tossed it aside. “Eleanor?”

Jon gently removed her IV. Caper glared at the restraints and used her gauntlet to slice through two of them. Sally cut the others and yanked them off. Jon couldn’t seem to help it, sitting on the edge of her bed and touching the side of her face. 

It took a moment but her eyes focused in again and the she blinked, jerked into awareness. “Papa?”

“Sort of,” Jon answered. “We’re here to get you out.”

“Eleanor,” Jack blurted out. It fit. She fit together. A little golden-eyed girl with her kind Daddy, always so kind to him. So gentle and funny.

Her eyes lit up on him. “Jack! You made it!” Jon helped her sit up. She was dressed in a simple nightgown. Frail and slender, but her eyes were bright. She reached out to touch Jack’s hands. “Yes…the chain tattoos. I remembered that.”

“Are you strong enough to walk?” Jack wanted to know. “We can carry you if we need to—“

“You don’t,” Eleanor said quickly. “I just need a Big Sister suit. Get me one of those and I’ll be able to help you.”

“You don’t have to,” Jack started. “You should try to rest.”

Eleanor shook her head. “I wouldn’t count on my mother letting us out of here without a fight. It won’t be easy. She’s stolen a lot of children.”

“Where is she, anyway?” Jack asked. “Cause we didn’t see her on the way in.”

“She likes to question prisoners herself sometimes,” Eleanor said darkly. 

Abruptly, beyond the glass wall and the large foyer, a door suddenly beeped and opened. Two people-shaped shadows slid into the observation room. Eli grabbed Jack’s shoulder and silently pointed. They all ducked behind the furniture. Eleanor stayed sitting up. So did Jon. 

And then one of the figures suddenly cold stopped and then raced forward. Elizabeth stopped short of the glass and banged on it. 

“Amir! Elizabeth!” Eli popped up and scurried over, studying the quarantine lock. “Are you guys okay?” They looked haggard, tired and cold.

“Eli! Have you seen Dewitt?” Amir shouted through the glass.

“Wha—no? Why?” 

And then the alarm went off. A large screen flickered on and a camera feed filled the screen. It appeared to be the front lobby, which suddenly erupted in gunfire and screaming. Splicers ran in howling and something flashed and exploded. Glass and debris flew passed the camera and then shadows emerged.

Amir gasped, pressing his fist against the wall. “Tyla…oh shit, it’s Tyla and Sven!”

“Eli!” Elizabeth shouted and pounded on the glass. “Lamb got them somehow! She got Booker and Annabelle!”

Eli swore, everything felt still and cold until he reminded himself to breath. And then Eleanor’s door flew open. At the same time, the airlocks on Elizabeth’s side opened. Several Big Sisters flooded into the observation room. 

“Oh shit!” Amir whipped around with his grenade launcher.

Lamb drew her pistol. “Delta, how good of you to come and ensure the safety of your Little Sister.”

Sally and Caper separated from the furniture, circling behind Lamb. 

Eleanor stood on her own feet. “Mother, I am _leaving_ and if you try to stop me, I will be forced to fight you.”

“Eleanor, I am your mother. I love you. These people do not understand what you are—“

A thunderclap of sound hit the glass walls. Elizabeth followed, striking with a loud _thump_ and then sliding to the floor, leaving a red smear behind. She scrambled up to throw down Shock Jockey crystals.

“Open that goddamn door!” Eli commanded. 

Doctor Lamb swept up to the young man, piercing blue eyes fixed on him. She was of height with the boy, looking in his somber green eyes. He was handsome, strong, looked an awful lot like the detective. “You are Annabelle’s son, aren’t you?”

“Open that goddamn security door or I’m going to rip your throat out.”

“Eleanor, the choice is yours. Open the door to assist criminals and murderers or let these people kill your own mother.”

“Wow,” Jack grunted, “that is some shady passive-aggressive bullshit.”

Lamb suddenly threw her hand up, a _pulse_ of green flooded over Jon. Hypnotize. “Delta, stand up.”

“Oh, fucking bitch!” Jon growled, screwing his eyes shut and fighting the plasmid as his legs moved him up.

“Let him _go!”_ Jack commanded, aiming down his sights at the doctor.

“Jon? Jon—look at me, Father?” Eleanor suddenly ducked in to look him in the eye. “Look at me, Jon.”

Jon coughed, smearing blood across his beard. He was pale and sweating, trying to drown out the command. “Get out of my head…..goddammit, get _out—!“_

Eli took two steps forward and struck the doctor in the face with the back of his hand. Jon collapsed. Sofia staggered, eyes turning livid instantly. Sally darted forward and slashed Lamb’s tendons. The doctor cried out, dropping to the floor. Caper chewed on her lip, studying the woman as she fingered her bladed gauntlet, thinking of all the places she could stab— 

Suddenly, the air crackled and a tear ripped open next to Eli. Elizabeth fell through it—and a Big Sister followed, slamming headfirst into Jack’s gut and bowling him over. Something exploded—everyone was thrown back from the tear. The Sister’s helm struck the metal wall divide and she went still.

Amir staggered up first. His shirt had been scorched into his flesh. He wiped blood off his brow before he went to Elizabeth and helped her up. Jon had grabbed Eleanor to him, whirling around to let his back take the brunt of the blast. Jack had grabbed Caper and done the same. Sally and Eli crashed together behind Eleanor’s dresser.

Lamb was still on the floor. Her right side was blasted with scorchmarks. The flesh of her right arm had been seared to the elbow. Caper slid out from under Jack and scampered over to Lamb.

“Wait, wait Caper!” Jack slid on blood, staggering to get his footing. 

But Caper only jammed her injector into the doctor, slurping Eve from her. “You said you didn’t splice,” Caper murmured. “But you did. Just one. So you could hurt Jon. So you could hurt Jon. So you could tell _lies._ Tell all kinds of lies. So you could hurt and make other people hurt.”

“I can bring _Utopia!_ Why does no one understand what that would mean?!” Lamb lamented, flailing her seared arm at them. The flesh slid off above her wrist. 

“Mother, just stop! Stop this! You don’t have to do this! Just stop.”

“You don’t understand. This… _you!_ You are my _life’s_ work!”

“This was _your_ work, Mother. I have my own work to do.”

Eleanor’s door swung open _again_ but this time, Sinclair stepped inside. He visibly startled. “How in the blazes did you all get in here! You are the sliest pack of foxes.”

“Sinclair!” Lamb was struggling to get up. Her stockings, shoes and the carpet were soaked in her blood. “Sinclair, stop them! They are going to kill Eleanor!”

Jack, Eli, Jon, Amir, Elizabeth, Caper and Sally all seemed to turn as one to dare Sinclair to double-cross them.

Sinclair licked his upper lip and smirked at them, leaning in the doorway to look both ways down the corridor before meeting that wall of stone-cold faces. “Well, now, Doctor, I am not too keen to be doing things beyond the scope of our agreement. As you have been very repetitious in telling me, I should never think to overstep my boundaries.”

“Sinclair, they will steal her and kill you!”

“Well, were I a gambling man, I reckon that if I were to double-cross them now, they’d kill me regardless of what you’d threaten.”

“He’s right,” Jack agreed, eyes hooded and flat.

“We would,” Jon echoed.

“Dead as mud,” Sally tacked on.

“Well, I’m afraid you’ve heard the burly young lads and stunning young lady, Doctor Lamb. My hands are, as we say, tied.”

“Go turn off the pheromone vents,” Eleanor commanded. She was still stooped, tired and bent. Her eyes were hard, raw. So _raw._ Everything hurt. Her nerves were singing, _burning._

Sinclair tipped an invisible hat to her. 

“Now,” Elizabeth said sweetly, stepping up to Doctor Lamb and drawing her pistol. She pointed it straight down into Lamb’s eyes. “Where’s Booker?”

Lamb sneered at her. “So you must be Elizabeth? Supposed reality-traveler?”

“Where is Booker?” Elizabeth repeated, tone indicating a swift evacuation of patience as she cocked the pistol. 

Lamb looked at Eleanor. “Mummy loves you, Eleanor. Mummy loves you.”

“I know where the prisoner cells are,” Jon said quietly. 

Elizabeth took a deep breath, finger itching on the trigger but then Eli touched her arm. She looked up to meet her sort-of brother’s green eyes and he nodded behind them. Eleanor was clearly ready to escape but perhaps having her be witness to the execution of her mother was a bit much for one day. After all, how many times had they relived Comstock’s death? Elizabeth lowered her pistol, struck by a weird urge to thank him.

“Delta!” Lamb shouted. “Delta, you will _not!_ You will do as I _say!”_ And once again, Lamb threw her hand up to cast Hypnotize, scraping together her last reserves of Eve—

Caper spun around on a dime and _slashed_ down like a guillotine. Her gauntlet went through flesh, muscle and bone. Lamb shrieked when her hand fell off and smacked the carpet. Sally stabbed the woman again with her injector to drain any remaining Eve. They watched her writhe in silence.

“Eleanor! My daughter! Eleanor, come back to me? Please—!”

Jack abruptly shot Doctor Lamb with his last sleep dart. Just to shut her up.

Jon went to the half a dozen or so downed Big Sisters outside the quarantine glass. Three had been hit with those knock-out darts, though he wasn’t sure by whom. The other three were dead. He knew them instinctively. _Madelaine. Omara. And Sharice._ Poor sweet things.

He’d escorted them when they were Little Sisters. Now they were dead. Jon knelt to unlatch Madelaine’s helm. Brown eyes, black hair, honey-warm skin: blood was painted down her nose and lips. She’d had a stuffed stegosaurus that she had dearly loved called Biscuit. 

Jon gently closed his little sister’s eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he said it in a whisper, meant only for the poor dead girl to hear. And then he unlatched Madelaine’s armor, removing the suit from her and taking it to Eleanor. 

The vents above them rumbled as they powered down. The young lady changed. The boys all politely turned away and tended to weapons and gear while Elizabeth approached her.

“Wow….” Elizabeth murmured. Dark hair, blue eyes, slender build and spliced to a degree rivaled only by Jack. It was….like a surreal mirror. 

Eleanor was likely not accustomed to being touched from how she instinctively flinched away from Elizabeth’s fingers. “It’s all right. I just want to help,” Elizabeth assured and gently pinched the straps of her nightgown, rather like Annabelle had helped with her burns…

This poor girl, held prisoner by her own mother. Just like Elizabeth. “We’re going to get you out of here,” Elizabeth promised and helped her get the suit on. Elizabeth hooked the latches and injected a clean vial of Eve to prep the suit’s defenses. “Are you sure you’re all right to fight? You should rest. We can do the heavy lifting, Eleanor.”

“Thank you, Ms Comstock, but I’ve been waiting for this for ten years.” The suit beeped and flashed green. That seemed to help Eleanor stand up straighter. They were the same height, which Elizabeth supposed shouldn’t surprise her. The young girl led them to an armory, where she grabbed a trident and a laser-cell gauntlet. There were two other such gauntlets. Eleanor offered one to Elizabeth first and then to Jon. Amir reloaded all the guns and grabbed a coil of rope before going out the door to keep watch down the hall. Jack found a map. He pulled the frame off the wall and smashed the glass to get it out.

Jon led them to the prison cells; Lamb’s shrieks of pain and rage followed them in disjointed echoes.

 

 

Annabelle blinked sweat from her eyes. She glared up at the screen. Meltzer was still heaving for breath, still screaming, crying, muttering and whispering. She strained to look through the observation window at him. The thuggish nurse was still lurking behind her somewhere. _A man looking for his daughter. Looking for his daughter._ “Meltzer!” 

His head rolled, sweating and drooling as his eyes listed around his cell. 

“Meltzer, you want Cindy or not!”

That was the only thing that caught his attention. “Cindy. Oh, my poor little girl. My poor little princess.”

“Mark!” She screamed it, because the thuggish nurse jolted her, spearing into her at the top of her spine. Annabelle’s stomach heaved, breaking into a cold sweat. “Meltzer! I can get you to Cindy!” 

The man’s eyes jerked up. “Cindy!” He wailed. “Cynthia! Cynthia! You look like your—“

Annabelle’s teeth were buzzing in her head. She fought passed it, her eyes were streaming tears. “Mark! I can get you to Cindy!”

The distraught father jerked, straining against the leather cuffs. The thuggish nurse grabbed her throat with his thick, white dead hands. “Mark!” Annabelle struggled.

The door to her cell opened and the round-faced doctor entered. “Ms Watson. I believe we met earlier.”

Annabelle and the nurse froze, dead white hands still locked around her throat. Doctor Alexander frowned. “No need for any more of that, Smith. Go see to Mister Dewitt. He is ready in the Induction chamber.”

The nurse grumbled and let her go, stomping out. 

“Where is Booker!” Annabelle snarled at him.

“You are very persistent. I admire that,” Gil told her, pulling a chair around to sit beside her. “I can see why it would be hard for him to be around you.”

Annabelle sneered at him.

Gil did not seem overly bothered by it. “From what I understand, you are not from this reality. You crossed through one of the tears that have appeared in occasional places around Rapture? Yes, some of us already know, Ms Watson. Doctor Suchong saw them first.” Gil shook a thick manilla folder at her before setting it aside on the tool tray. “I’ve encountered two. And some of our Little Sisters have come across them. But we had not heard of anyone crossing the fields. We only knew that music could. The rest could be illusions for all we knew.” His eyes were bright and hungry. Annabelle could feel him staring. “You can admit, at least, that you are not from Rapture?”

“Yes,” Annabelle managed tersely.

“This boy, Elijah Comstock, is your son?”

“Yes.”

“Is Elizabeth Comstock your daughter?”

“No.”

“Do you know about the _other_ Elizabeth Comstock who made a name for herself in Fort Frolic?”

“I have heard of her. I don’t know if she’s alive or dead.”

Gil leaned into the white light of the flickering screen hanging in front of her and beyond that, the blinding echo of florescent bulbs through the observation glass in Mark’s chamber. “And Mister Dewitt is not your husband, but another version of him, I take?”

Annabelle lifted her bleary eyes to study the doctor’s face, glaring. “Correct.”

“What do you think of him?” 

Belle’s eyes went hooded and flat. “Is this at _all_ relevant to _anything,_ right now?”

“Extremely, Ms Watson. Because, you see, down the hall, Mister Dewitt is undergoing questioning, just like you. And, just like you, he is restrained. You have the observation glass between yourself and Mister Meltzer but your television screen shows only another angle into Mister Meltzer’s current predicament. Mister Dewitt can see the same angle.” Gil pointed back to the white and grey screen. “But he can also see _you.”_ Gil raised his eyebrows. “And, like you, he has been very stubborn and uncooperative.” Gil got up, shuffling to a small freezer in the corner behind her somewhere and drawing forth a plasmid hypo.

The doctor studied the lustrous red glow before turning to saunter back to Annabelle. “He has been watching Mister Meltzer, you and Doctor Lamb—“

“Where is that bitch, anyway?” Annabelle interrupted. “She left in an awful fuckin hurry.”

“And do you know what I observed?” Gil went on, ignoring her question. “Mister Dewitt has very intense physical reactions to your video feed. His expression hardly changes, even through the questioning and torture Lamb inflicted on you. But all of my devices and machines tell me that underneath, he is panicked, enraged, he fears for you. He likely cannot even help it. We cannot help who we love, can we?”

Annabelle went still.

“Do you appreciate how worried he is? Because, as a scientist, I do. For both its strengths and its weaknesses. So please understand that what I’m about to do is not personal, Ms Watson. It is merely what I perceive to be the quickest way of dealing with Mister Dewitt.”

Annabelle’s eyes automatically flickered up, looking for a camera—though she couldn’t find one. “You goddamn coward,” Bea sneered at him. “Fuck you. Fuck _you!”_

Gil injected the plasmid hypo. “I will be testing a new plasmid today. My own invention, I have simply been calling it Stun—I’ve no head for clever names. It was designed specifically for interrogation. As a detective, you can likely appreciate that? What it does, Ms Watson, is take control of the central nervous system. Specifically, pain receptors.”

“Oh, come _on!_ Fuck you—“

The pain was instant, racking, stabbing into all her pressure points, at every joint, down every muscle. Her spine curved but she forced her head down, breathing open-mouthed and ragged as her lungs fluttered and stuck together, trying to scream around the blood gushing from her nose: “Mark!” 

Then the door shook, something rumbled and then _wham—!_

But it was Elizabeth who kicked the door in and ducked to the side. Amir stepped in after her, charging forward and slamming into Gil. The doctor curled his fist, grabbing into Amir with a charge of his plasmid—

Elizabeth shot around the gurney and _reached_ with Possession. 

Gil froze, face going slack. Amir dropped, grunting and spitting blood onto the floor. And then he swung himself up in one fluid motion, hammering his fist into Gil’s face with a meaty _whump_ that floored the scientist immediately. 

The hallway suddenly lit up with fire and gunshots.

“Annabelle?” Elizabeth asked, drawing the leather cuffs back. It was still a little odd to look her in the face but she made herself do it. The other time-traveler she knew (very select club) had clearly taken a stout beating. Her face was black and blue, one eye swollen and blood everywhere. "Goddammit...." Her nose was still seeping, as were her ears. But there was nothing she could do. Elizabeth had already searched and she had _no echoes_ of Annabelle here with another Elizabeth. Just herself. "We have to get her to Caper. I have no other selves that were ever here with Annabelle."

"Shit," Amir muttered, suddenly frustrated, for helplessness had always filled him with an almost irrational rage. (Elizabeth felt his aura prickle and buzz in his teeth.) He pried the bracing bar, sticky with blood, away from the back spine of the metal chair so he could split the lock that pinned Watson's shoulders to the tall wings. It had a creepy set of metal arms attached, to which flesh arms were tacked upon so the one being questioned could not try to protect his or her organs. 

Elizabeth knelt silently to wrap her alternate-mother's ankles and feet in bandages and some socks. 

It had surprised no one more than Elizabeth when Eli volunteered first to go with Jack. It was underneath them by at least two levels and heavily guarded, very likely, according to Jon. The former Big Daddy himself would not leave Eleanor's side and she was, well...apparently working off some steam with Sally and Caper. Jack declared he would go and get Booker and before Elizabeth could say anything, her brother had jumped in, "I'll go with you, Jack. I, uh, I owe him one. And I owe you one." Eli's gaze had gone to Elizabeth, those dark jade eyes....not as somber, more open, asking her for something. Permission, maybe? "Annabelle is down the hall, passed three security gates."

"I'll find Belle," Amir answered. "On my life. Try not to die."

Eli's eyes went to him, surprised for just a moment and then he smiled a little but it was dark and resigned and tired. 

And suddenly, it came to her. The Door of the door. Delta's door. Back in Eleanor's chambers, Elizabeth had been fighting off the Big Sisters when she spied Eli inside and suddenly thought _: If he's me and I'm him, then shouldn't I be able to open a tear to him?_

And then she did it. She'd had to. Because Elizabeth didn't have an echo of that door. _And neither did Eli. He must have figured that even if he had come, he wouldn't be able to heal her. If his mother had been tortured to death, there was nothing he could do and rather than let that gut him in the heart right now...he wanted to try for Booker instead. Taking a gamble on a Dewitt._ And maybe tucking away the fears of the first unknowns that either of them had experienced in a long time. Like daggers in his gut, Eli had felt nauseated, just a little. Though how she knew, she supposed, must be natural for once. Har-har. 

It was a strange, but familiar ache. Yes, she'd seen Booker die. That didn't mean it got easier. He was _real._ And to Eli, well....Annabelle was real.

“Elizabeth?“ Annabelle was staring at her, looking stunned. The woman was soaked in blood and sweat. “Y-your father—he’s—“

“We’re looking for him,” Amir said, easing her battered ankles out of the bloodied cuffs. The young man scooped her up. 

Elizabeth knelt down, laying Gilbert flat and stacking one knee onto his hand. The young woman leaned all her weight onto his fleshy palm and then stuck his Plasmid hypo into his arm. The doctor jerked into awareness, groggy as he came around. Elizabeth pulled back, brimming the chamber with blue and red and purple smears.

The man yelped, crying out and trying to back away from them. “Please! I am unarmed!”

“I’ve got what I need.” Elizabeth shrugged, her eyes narrowed at Doctor Gil, mentally scanning through every scientist in her Tower, hating them and hating _him_ by association. Elizabeth clenched her fist and static sparked around her wrists. The _desire_ to kill him was suddenly _intoxicating,_ which was, fundamentally, wrong but Elizabeth never claimed to be free of faults. She and Amir had left a litter of corpses behind them. What was one more? Especially this one? 

“Cindy…” And suddenly the doorway went dark. 

Amir, still holding Belle, took three steps backwards into the room. Elizabeth mimicked him, stretching her fingers and feeling the static jump between them. 

“They took Cindy…” Meltzer was up, shaking and crying again. “I did what she asked—I found the man. I didn’t even know who he was!” He lurched up to the doctor. “But these people! You people! You're all fucking _monsters!”_

Suddenly, like a puppet on strings, Meltzer grabbed the Doctor by his lapels. There was a swift, sharp _crack._ And then Meltzer slammed that round face into the observation glass. It fractured, splintered and then shattered. Still, again and again and again, Meltzer slammed that face into the glass. Its spikes and shards and shattered fractals sprayed blood over them all. 

Elizabeth felt Amir take her by the shirt, urging her back when she went a little pale and her legs suddenly felt wobbly and her fingers were tingling...in her head she watched Comstock die in almost the same way.

No one moved until Meltzer stopped. Gil’s face was a shredded ruin of pulped tissue and bone. The man dropped him and the doctor plopped like a sack of rotting meat, brains and matter eeking out onto the tile. “I just wanted to find my daughter!” Meltzer lamented, voice hitching. “Just my daughter.“

“Meltzer,” Elizabeth spoke up, reaching out to touch his arm. “We’ll help you find your daughter. C’mon. Come with us. We’re going to get everyone out.”

The man looked at them, haggard and worn. “Elizabeth…Elizabeth….?”

Amir looked between them but Elizabeth kept a careful poker face.

The man wiped his eyes. “Yes….yes…please, I will. I’m sorry. Elizabeth. I’m sorry.”

Something exploded again in the hallway. 

“We have to go. Come on if you’re going to!” Amir told him and then rushed out the door. 

“Let’s find Cindy,” Elizabeth told him and took off after Amir.

They left Gil’s brutalized corpse behind.

 

 

Sirens blaring, Jack and Eli went skidding around a corner, through a push door and into some sort of laboratory. Or prison. There appeared to be cells downstairs. There were still assistants here, splicers too, and they were mobbed immediately. 

Eli stepped ahead of them and his fists crackled with the smoldering ember burn of Devil’s Kiss. The air flashed in front of them, a wall of flame pulsing like a sail as it blasted down the corridor. It seared any flesh it touched, Jack followed up with bees before he swung in with his fireman’s axe. 

Someone farther in appeared around, pointing and shouting. Eli bounded forward, coiling molten fire in a whipping snake. He lassoed the man and he went shrieking to the floor before his clothes and hair ignited. More shouts, there appeared to be some sort of scuffle already in progress—

Booker had apparently ripped one of his restraints and now his fist was locked into some lab-coated freak’s throat. Blood burst around his fingertips, gushing over the detective’s arm. Jack barreled by, burying his axe in one’s head. Eli drew his knife and lanced it into the throat of the last, right under the man’s ear. 

“Booker? Hey? Dewitt? You okay?” Jack knelt down to unlatch the metal restraints at his ankles. They were stiff, tar-sticky with crusted blood. They screeched. “Shitfuck, man. I'll find you some boots real quick.”

Eli took a breath, feeling as though his feet were stuck to the floor for half a moment. And then he forced it away. “Booker,” he said, softer, as he forced the arm restraints open and half-lifted the man to his feet. It was weird being nose-to-nose with him. His alternate-father was his own height. Same hair, jaw, eyes….

They were bloodshot and dizzy, dark. “Eli….” The man managed, suddenly latching onto his shoulder. “Have to…Lamb has….your mother—“

“It’s all right, Booker. We already know. C’mon. Time to blow this popcorn stand.” He took Booker’s arm over his shoulder and helped him walk while Jack scouted ahead of them. Sally appeared in the doorway, pacing the entrance. Her gauntlets and suit were splattered in blood. She eyed Booker as Eli half-carried the older man. Booker tried to keep up as best he could and Eli never once faltered. The boy was strong. His son was strong. 

In the hallway, Sinclair stuttered to a stop, raising his palms to Mark Meltzer. But then Amir suddenly appeared father down the hallway, carrying a bundle. “NO! Meltzer! Sinclair! This way!”

 _”GIVE ME BACK MY DAUGHTER!”_ Lamb’s voice suddenly ratchetted around them via the loudspeaker.

Sinclair did a swift about-face to race after Amir. Meltzer followed. Elizabeth did a double-take, noticing them in the black hallway, flickering lights and roaring sirens.

“I got him!” Eli bellowed it at her. “Go! We gotta get to the bathysphere!”

The hallway broke into a large lobby, where Jon and Caper and Eleanor had left a litter of death. Jon stayed close as Eleanor and Caper joined the group. The ragtag runners burst into a processing area to more gunfire. Amir and Eli ducked back to protect Annabelle and Booker. Caper joined them, already jabbing herself with an injector when the elder boys laid each one on the floor.

The building shook again, then the lights went out. Caper took the suddenly stunned silence to inject Booker and Annabelle. 

And then the gunfire started again. Flashlights flickered on, allowing Amir and Eli to watch the Little Sister’s blood heal the two detectives. 

_”I WILL SINK THIS ENTIRE BUILDING!”_ The shriek over the PA was loud and scratchy as Lamb ranted and raved.

Eli stayed by Booker, offering his palm to the man. Those hard green eyes…changed a little. Softened a little, perhaps. Booker took it and Eli helped his father to his feet. “Annabelle? You all right?” The boy said, a little awkwardly looking away from Booker.

Abruptly, the gunfire stopped.

Amir perked like a dog on the hunt and went around the corner. “Tyla! Holy shit, you guys are amazing! What are you all doing here?”

Tyla smirked, shaking his palm roughly. The dark-skinned girl was smattered in blood and dirt. Her belt had six lopsided ears jammed into it. “Grace Holloway told us.” Tyla nodded to Jack and Eli and Jon. “Ran into them and Sally and Caper. So we came to help. Where’s Lamb?”

“She was hobbled,” Amir said, “back in Eleanor’s prison.”

“Fuck her then,” Jaime answered, a Moroccan boy of about fourteen or so. “Let’s get to the Fontaine building. She wants folks to die for her religion than she can start with herself.”

Sinclair nodded. “This way, folks. Lamb had her own docking station built into Persephone.”

They hurried, a motley band of fatesnatchers. The rebel children looted the bodies and weapons and then scattered to get to Fontaine’s via other routes (there were too many to go in the sphere). Now that security was offline and the pheromone vents were down, they entered the private dock to silence. 

Sinclair raced to the dock terminal, flipping all the levers. Eleanor went up the steps first as the mighty doors opened. 

“I won’t let you do this to me, Eleanor! You will take everything from me! From us!” Lamb howled into a blast of radio static. “I will bring down this entire building if I have to! I will turn that bathysphere to cinders!”

Eleanor frowned, face drawn and tired and flat. “Let’s go.” 

They piled in carefully. Booker collapsed in the large round booth, healed yes, but exhausted. Elizabeth sat on his left, slumping back into the cushion, Annabelle was on his right but she didn’t look at anyone. Jack, Sinclair, Eli and Amir stayed nearest to the door. Sally and Caper sat on the floor. No one spoke. Jon closed the seal.

“Eleanor! Do you hear me!” Lamb screamed it and in the background, they heard a different siren turn on. “Will you truly leave your own mother to die with our ideals! With Persephone! I will burn this to the bedrock, Eleanor! I am begging you! Come back to me! Let me finish and you will see—”

Jack turned the radio off. 

Eleanor was sitting on Elizabeth’s left. She gently put a hand on the poor girl’s thin shoulder.

 

\--


	22. Possibilities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ballad for Beezlebub, Graveyard Train: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pj6Q0xRW5bQ&index=93&list=PLQuOKHNudkmd8XwtZosj0WXzYWpuHjTxz&t=0s
> 
>  
> 
> \-------------------------------------  
> “And Miss Lamb can do the opposite. She has all the genetic samples you could ask for: she can bring them to life, live the memories, and see them, learn from them. But she has no way to access the probability-space to give any necessary perspective or context.”  
> \---------------------------------------

_”Well, as the Prophet says, the pain is part of the cure.”_

And then she _heard_ Eli yell. A pained, ragged scream, rough and choking. He swore and cursed at the scientists and Comstock. It blasted like static from the unstable rifts that ripped the air apart around Comstock’s Compound. 

But over everything else, a red rage was bubbling up into Annabelle’s eyes. This boy was the only good thing that had come into her life since she’d lost Booker and her son. And she’d be fucking _damned_ if she lost him again. 

_(Again?)_

Annabelle slogged her way through the awful lunatics with their skeletal founders’ masks. The Boys of Silence. They listened but could not _see_. And the tears got worse as the rooms got worse. Eli’s defiant shouting and swearing from the tears or his dejected acceptance of his role in a genocide. 

_(“Bring us the boy, take your revenge. If only she had known that she’d be trading one life for thousands. If only I had died at fifteen. That was the end. When they fixed my spine and prepared it for the leash. They were waiting, just in case. I was of his Line, wasn’t I? Comstock shot the False Shepherd to keep him from ever showing up in Columbia. But then _she_ showed up instead of my father. That changed everything for them. And in the end, I’m the one that gave in. I’m the one that rotted away and left all hope behind. She fought in every reality. The guilt is mine. I gave in.”)_

By the time she reached the laboratory, she was so furious that all Annabelle could register was red. All she could smell was blood and copper. All she could hear was her boy _screaming._ Annabelle winked into corners, took out guards one at a time like a specter. She used Undertow to create the mirror-like effect to hide from cameras or she would snag Comstock’s goons with it to whip them back to her and silently snap their necks. 

When she threw the double-doors aside, she saw Elijah. He was strapped down, shirtless, with a spinal tap jammed into his back. His body seized as the doctors gave him another nasty shock. The muscles in his arms were thick and the cords of his throat were standing out like pillars. 

Seeing him made everything go hazy, as well as red. It was as if she stepped outside herself, watching glacier-cold rage come over her like a crashing tidal wave. Watched herself stalk forward—

“Dewitt! Do you hear what you’re doing to him—“

—in one sweeping motion, lifting the machine gun and shattering all the observation windows with a spray of metal. She didn’t even stop to see if it hit. Within the surgery chamber, Elijah screwed his eyes shut—wheezing when the scientists turned up the voltage—

And Annabelle pulled back with her fist and she blasted the glass chamber with Undertow, forcing water into the tiny spaces, only to _rip_ and _expand._ The rivets tucked into the metal beams popped out like champagne corks and she used the watery limbs to sunder them, throwing the beams up at the observation windows before she punted herself into the air with Bucking Bronco. It threw her into one of the control booths. 

Once she got the power off, once she smeared everyone’s blood on her hands—(except Comstock, the fuck had run, of course)—she dropped back down into the glass chamber and staggered over. “Eli? Elijah?”

He shuddered. The boy was bleeding from his ears and nose. His eyes were red and seeping. That was when she’d found out he had the metal port fused into his back. After a nasty fall that had snapped his spine at fifteen, Eli had been saved by Fink and Doctor Pettifog. They fused his spine with an intricate module that came with a _port_ already in place for the spinal tap. Horrible. Horrible. Comstock had been planning to do this to him since he was at least fifteen. Probably before, but the broken spine had presented an opportunity to chain him. Just in case. 

“Holy shit,” Annabelle breathed, as she pulled off her gloves. She touched carefully around the puncture. The port for the shock device had been laid _under_ Eli’s flesh. He probably hadn’t even known it was there. His shoulders were smeared in blood. She placed a palm on him and disengaged the ice pick of a needle. 

He jolted, eyes bleary and vacant. Annabelle touched his jaw gently, pulling his eyes to her. 

“Bea….” He’d managed, shuddering.

She tore off his restraints and, bracing one hand on his shoulder, Annabelle helped him sit up. His back and shoulders were a mass of purple and black bruising. He was soaked in sweat and Annabelle only let him walk to a nearby cot before she made him sit. The jolts to the metal module in his spine had allowed them to just zap the poor boy into painful submission, effectively paralyzing him with the touch of a button. 

_(“We’ll make this one weep.”)_

Annabelle got water and a towel and she helped him clean up when they found Comstock’s inner office. Eli was a foot taller than her but he did not resist when she guided him to a fancy couch and made him sit. The young man was shaking, keeping himself as silent as possible. But he was _trembling_ and twitching and he initially jerked away from her touch. It made some aching long-dead part of her suddenly wake up and cry out in wrath and _goddammit_ she was going to kill the _shit_ out of Comstock! Fuck Comstock! Fuck the Luteces! Fuck the woman from New York—

 

 

 

The sphere shuddered to a stop and the lights flickered on as it reattached to the dock. The door hissed and opened. Jon got out first with Jack, both peering around for any signs of movement. But there was nothing. All was silent. Lumbering holiday decorations mired the public entrance like an ominous reverse-spook house. A graveyard of only slightly better things. 

_How dramatic,_ Jack thought, peering over toppled pillars before circling around the foyer displays. It was still and quiet as Jon set down turrets. Eli awkwardly shuffled away, pulling a trash bin to the foyer to build a fire. 

Booker had a hand on Eleanor’s back, offering his grip with the other. The bone-thin girl took it gratefully. Like everyone else, she was exhausted and the echoes of her mother’s screaming were probably still banging around in her head. But she nodded to Booker politely as Annabelle came up from the other side, fussing at the helm to get it to lower so she could examine the girl. 

“Come and sit, I’ll make you some tea. Do you know when you last ate food, Eleanor?”

The girl shook her head as the Dewitts suddenly focused on her. “It’s been only liquids for ages….”

“We’ll start slowly, dove. Don’t worry. No one is _ever_ going to lock you up _ever again,”_ Annabelle said very seriously, meeting Eleanor’s gaze as Booker pulled over a broken-in couch. Annabelle sat down with the girl as Elizabeth approached with a blanket. She draped it over Eleanor’s shoulders while Annabelle gently untangled Eleanor’s hair, cleaning up the blood she could reach.

“I’ll root around,” Booker told them. “Jon saw a corner market—I’m gonna go with him. Eli, Amir, Sinclair—set up a perimeter. Meltzer?”

The man was standing like a statue in front of the toppled pillars. He was still shaking but at his own name, he turned. “Cindy—“

“Yeah, we’re gonna find her,” Booker reminded him. “But we have to _get_ there first. There being—“

Eli suddenly sneezed and then coughed. His nose ringed in blood. “Shit, oh shit,” he grumbled, “right, this is where I saw the Other Elizabeth.”

“She was here,” Elizabeth murmured, looking up at the cathedral ceilings of the building. “She was here with Comstock. So I saw her time in Rapture before and you saw her down here….”

Eleanor gently touched Elizabeth’s hand. “Ms Comstock, who are you? I know Jack and Jon but no one else. I am familiar with names,” she amended, gesturing to Amir. “You are Amir, right? I was sure you were dead. The last time I saw you….”

“It’s all right, Eleanor,” Amir said, quiet but somewhat strained. “I’m just glad that…well….uh, I don’t know. We were children then but—“

“You looked for me,” Eleanor said, eyes softening, feeling the affection he had in his memories. “No one would help you, so you went to the Detective, Booker Dewitt.” Her ghostly blue eyes went to Eli. “But not the detective with you presently? My mother believes that you crossed realities. Is this true?”

“Yes.”

“Can you explain it to me?”

So, as best they could, they did. 

 

 

 

Eleanor simply absorbed it, listening quietly as Elizabeth related their story. Eli seemed uncertain about approaching. He lingered on the other side of the fire pit, watching them.

“Eleanor!” A shout suddenly lifted among the downed pillars and walls. A yellow skirt was stark against the white décor as Grace hobbled towards them. The woman was already crying. 

“Aunt Grace!” Eleanor cried out. Annabelle helped her stand and Holloway threw her arms around Eleanor, sobbing. 

“Oh my poor sweet girl. My poor sweet thing, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“You didn’t know and my mother lied to everyone.” Eleanor hadn’t been embraced in so long. She clutched at Grace. The soft warmth of her, the scent of cherry tobacco smoke that lingered on her, comforting and safe. 

“We been watching for you, child,” Grace managed, sob-choked. “Everyone is gathered in the department store. That Diane Locke got all them scientists working on bathyspheres.”

Eli and Elizabeth seemed to unconsciously look at each other but this time, neither looked away. 

“We could use the gravity hook,” Elizabeth said. “The Lutece Particle that the other version of myself used to raise the Fontaine building from the sea floor.”

“It should still be here. We would just have to open tears that….lead to our same genetic signature, right?” Eli mused, looking across the fire. 

“If you can open tears to genetic signatures, then are the Little Sisters able to connect you to individual people?” Eleanor wanted to know.

“That’s how it worked for me,” Eli said. “Tenenbaum had me heal Doctor Porter. Changed him back to his original human body. She gave me a genetic sample mixed with Eve.”

“So shouldn’t _I_ be able to connect you two to almost anyone you would need?” Eleanor studied Elizabeth.

“So you two could open tears to anyone that Eleanor had genetic material from?” Jack prompted, raising his eyebrows.

“Holy shit,” Amir said quietly. “That would be _thousands_ of people, wouldn’t it?”

“Grace, can you take us to the others gathered here?” Eleanor requested. “I think we can get everyone out.”

“Wait,” Elizabeth said and then stood. She lifted her palm, thinking of Amir and the Camouflage plasmid. A tear ripped open in front of her.

Eleanor gasped, separating from Grace to stare. “Oh wow….this is a _tear,_ isn’t it?”

“Yes, because the Other Elizabeth was here with Comstock.”

“Comstock is the one that killed the Detective?” Eleanor double-checked.

“Yes,” she answered, glancing sidelong at the girl. “Did you meet the Detective too?”

Eleanor’s expression shifted, hard and calculating to something softer, quieter. “No. But my sisters did.” And suddenly it all seemed to crash down on her. Her shoulders curled in, staring at the metal flooring. “My sisters and brothers….the Detective saved them. He looked for us. He looked for _me.”_

_(“It matters to me! You tried to saved me.”)_

Eli watched Eleanor curl her arms tight around herself. He wanted to….help or something. But he wasn’t sure what to even try to do. Amir stood behind Grace, looking as helpless as Eli felt. It was probably worse for him, the childhood friend that Eleanor only remembered as a name. Jack simply stepped forward and took Eleanor’s hand. Her blue eyes went up to Jack’s, grip tightening.

“Let’s go see the sunlight, huh?”

 

 

 

Sally hated them all for a moment. She felt like she were being smothered. Her gauntlets were _burning._ She didn’t want to know what Comstock had done compared to the Detective. She’d met both, though she’d known Comstock longer. The white-haired Booker had still been kinder to her than any other adult….he’d _tried_ to find her. The Sister’s hollow blue eyes went to the present Booker Dewitt. He was rattled, tired, enduring. He didn’t really want to fight anymore but of course, he would if need be. Booker seemed hair-trigger tense. He’d _ripped_ through one of his restraints….. 

Jack took Eleanor through the tear. Amir, Sinclair, Grace and Meltzer followed. 

Caper lingered by Annabelle, fingering her gauntlet. The woman looked exhausted and drawn, somber. She wanted to talk to Booker. Caper could feel that. The woman was aching inside, something raw and sharp. She’d been silent in the bathysphere and other than fussing over Eleanor, had been quiet. Like she didn’t quite trust her own voice. 

Elizabeth was speaking with Eleanor, now on the other side of the tear, explaining the physics behind it. A crowd was gathering on Eleanor’s side. Jon went to Eli, laying a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. He murmured something to him and then went to the tear. Elizabeth directed him how to step through to join Eleanor in the center of the building somewhere.

Eli drug his fingers through his matted hair, meandering to Sally’s side. “You need to see it?” His voice was quiet, somber.

The Sister stiffened before her eyes shot up to him. But then she nodded. Eli placed a large palm on her spine and nodded towards his sort-of sister. “Tell them we’ll follow in a moment. We need to take care of something first.” 

Elizabeth looked back at him, Sally and then understood. 

“We can get the hypos ready,” Eleanor suggested and turned away with Amir, Jon and Jack. 

Caper watched Eli raise his palm to the open air and another tear ripped itself into existence. A different part of the Fontaine building, she knew. Sad things waited there. Sally stared into it and then went through with Eli. Elizabeth and Annabelle followed. Booker waited for Caper to take his hand and they stepped through together.

It was a strange feeling, how the building seemed to just materialize. The front foyer and the toy store felt very different. Different temperatures, different smells, though the copper of blood permeated everything. The foyer was colder but the toy store was more open. 

The tear vanished behind them. Flashlights flickered on and Booker stopped, taking a rough breath. Elizabeth went to him as his nose started to bleed again, swaying on the tile and marble. Annabelle pulled a bench over and grabbed his elbow to guide him to sit. Sally padded over to the vent.

Like a horrible, cold metal eye. Sally remembered it. It was so _hot_ and she could hear him suddenly, she heard Booker (Comstock?). He was looking for her! No one else ever had! He was the only one—

_(”Sally! Dear! Sally! Come out, please! Look, it’s Sara, she came to see you!”)_

And then the Songbird, _screaming_ when the Big Daddy whirled around and slammed into her. Blood spurting over all of them as she had the audacity to _beg_ for fucking _mercy,_ before the righteous Big Daddy flung her body into a display—

_(“I left Sally to rot! So, what! I could punish Comstock!? He was trying to help her!”)_

They all heard the echoes.

“Ah, here we are,” Rosalind said, hands folded. 

“We did not actually know if you would get here,” Robert told them. The twins stood like sentries on either side of the rubble. “Exciting bit of uncertainty.”

“For us, as it were,” Rosalind added and then snorted a laugh. “Dewitt, always something to see you still walking about.”

“Not dead, she means,” Robert clarified. “Though I imagine it could apply to either of you.” He gestured to Annabelle and Booker. The woman’s face was stone-cold. She flipped them off. Booker glared at them and turned away. 

“They ought not to be cross with us,” Rosalind said primly. “We died too, after all.”

Robert chuckled.

Booker ignored them and went to Sally, who was still staring up at the Little Sister vent. 

“This is where it happened,” Sally informed him, pointed at the vent. “The Songbird lured you here, using me as bait. She already knew I was trapped down here—maybe she was the one who had me kidnapped and sold to Cohen because he was her only way of getting down to the Fontaine building—where she could take her time to set her trap. So she became Cohen’s disciple and they struck a deal. She would get her target to his party and Cohen would get some muse-fodder and then ship them down—casual death was just a risk of working with Rapture’s favorite artist. She could have just knifed Booker in his office….but instead….” Sally looked at the floor. “Instead she used _me_ as a way of _twisting_ the knife—“ Her lungs shuddered and her eyes welled up.

Booker knelt beside her and gently turned Sally to him, pulling her to his chest to embrace her. “I’m so sorry, Sally,” he murmured into her hair as she silently burst into sobs over the large bloody patch dried into the marble. “I’m so sorry…”

 

 

Eli moved the rubble. However long the woman had been there, she’d rotted from the damp cold. The Songbird was in a black skirt with a classy white stripe and a flattering button-up. She’d been gutted and then speared through the chest by an iron support rod. 

_(“The Luteces warned me that if I came back to save Sally, I would collapse down to a singular self. No cosmic knowledge, just a normal girl with a normal pinkie.”)_

The Songbird had never really known the Detective. She only met Comstock here. The second Elizabeth came back to life, appearing here in the houseware’s toy department, waking up to Atlas…

_(“The Ace in the Hole!”)_

Their Elizabeth stepped forward, kneeling beside the slain Songbird. _Another self, she came back to make this right. She died in her part. But we’ll make this right or do the same._ She gently took the Songbird’s namesake broach from her collar, sliding the silver bird into her satchel. 

“She was the one I dreamed about initially on the plane,” Eli murmured, as the two mirrors of Elizabeth were still as glass. Then the living one stood. 

“And then the second,” Elizabeth suggested. “Because I saw the plane crash but I never saw Rapture in ruins. The plane would crash but then Rapture would be beautiful and alive. So I must have seen the months she spent gathering information in Rapture. And you saw the crash and then this place.”

“I saw mostly the ruins,” Eli agreed. 

“You both had pieces that the other needed,” Robert said. “When the second Elizabeth came here, discovered the Songbird dead, realized what had happened and then chose to continue, she unknowingly set other events in motion. But, she collapsed to a singular self and became a normal human.”

“Present Company’s Elizabeth could not see because the second Elizabeth could no longer share without a pinkie to broadcast,” Rosalind said, lifting her hand to wryly wiggle her own pinkie.

“Shit,” Elizabeth said faintly. She sat down heavily, dragging her hand into her hair. “And so, Eli saw ruins because…..he wasn’t an exact match, like I was?”

“Like Delta’s suit, it was just close enough to fool the universe, it seems. It needed an anomaly and so, here you are with your own brother. Eleanor will need both of you to change things.” 

“How?” Eli demanded. “How would we even do that? We can’t just start making judgement calls for these people. No matter how much we might want to. ”

“You wondered, at the beginning,” Rosalind reminded him, “how the two of you could be in the same space without collapsing into a single probability.”

Elizabeth stiffened, looking at her dead self, and thinking of the Other Elizabeth, also dead somewhere in Atlas' den. “Because we already _did.”_

"Oh Jesus Christ," Booker sighed, making Annabelle snort into her fist.

Eli rubbed his forehead. “So now, whatever happens here is the cancel out? The necessary other route?”

“Of course,” Robert answered, “no one can simply _destroy_ a reality. The universe adapts. The two of you can now represent _all_ true possibilities. Like the body can rebuild veins after a human limb is severed, the universe repairs itself. The Songbird severed the veins in this timeline, to _cut_ Comstock out. She only wanted the infection but she amputated the limb instead. Another Songbird might have regretted it—tried to take it back and heal Comstock, who pulled in versions of himself from all directions because he wasn’t where he was supposed to be and he wasn’t _who_ he was supposed to be.”

“As my brother and I were killed within our contraption, we were scattered to possibility-space,” Rosalind said.

“So with the two of us here, we can _bring_ all possibility-spaces together?” Eli suggested. 

“As she destroyed all of hers,” Rosalind agreed. "You bring them together in a perilous house of cards."

“And not just ours,” Elizabeth mused, looking at her palm and again thinking of Amir and his Camouflage tonic. And how she was so easily able to separate his genetic knowledge from her own. “But anyone we would have genetic samples from.”

“And Miss Lamb can do the opposite. She has all the genetic samples you could ask for: she can bring them to life, live the memories, and see them, learn from them. But she has no way to access the probability-space to give any necessary perspective or context.”

Robert lifted his eyebrows. “If only you knew someone who could move objects and people through space and time.”

Eli and Elizabeth looked at each other. 

 

 

Amir checked on Tyla and the others. “Bravest sons of bitches to ever run Rapture,” he grumbled at them proudly, checking Jaime over for any injuries. 

“When we figured you were heading for Lamb, we knew this must be it,” Tyla said, shrugging a shoulder. “Especially with Delta off running around instead of guarding Persephone.”

“Well, he’s on our side now,” Amir told them, making sure to meet the circle of eyes. 

“Is that an opinion or a fact?” Sven inquired.

“Both,” Amir said, matter-of-fact. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. And we got Eleanor. They come as a set.”

“What will happen to us?” Vincent muttered quietly, suspiciously eyeing the assembled adults and elder teenagers. 

“Sounds like someone’s trying to come up with something—honestly, I’m so goddamn tired I can barely think,” Amir admitted, sitting down on a floral display on the first floor of the massive lobby to the Fontaine mall. “Elizabeth is certain that she can get us all out. And at this point, guys, I’m willing to bet my life on it.” 

His friends, his co-conspirators, they all exchanged looks. Amir didn’t blame them. 

And then the tear opened and Amir turned away to hurry across the marble. “Elizabeth? Everything all right?” He called it out as he jogged over to the rip in the air, Natalia and the others followed him. 

Eli came through first and then turned to guide Annabelle through. Caper stepped over the edges carefully, holding Elizabeth’s hand. Booker carried Sally, who looked still and quiet. 

“Is she injured?” Tenenbaum suddenly spoke, appearing from the crowd with Porter and Langford. She came forward anyway to see to the Little Sisters. They both seemed too tired to do much about her. Sally just shook her head and disassembled her helm, pulling it off. Caper shied away silently, going to sit next to Sally as if she were standing guard.

“Dewitt, I can’t believe it—I bet Porter a thousand dollars you’d be dead if we ever saw you again,” Langford smiled and reached out to shake his hand. 

“I can’t say Lamb didn’t try her damndest.”

“Do we have a plan of some kind?” Porter asked, sleeves rolled up and oil on his hands. “I have been fixing what bathyspheres we’ve been able to gather. There are a few dozen, all told, that were whitelisted after Ryan was killed. Being six miles deep—we don’t want to get out there and run out of oxygen.”

Elizabeth and Eli waved their hands for quiet and the crowd backed away a short distance. Booker found Annabelle at his side and reached out, putting a palm on her shoulder. She didn’t even resist, leaning in against him. They found themselves watching as the two outlined their plan to Eleanor.

Eleanor Lamb didn’t argue. She was still looking raw, eyes red-rimmed and hard. The girl offered her arm. Lorna pushed in her injector and drew from her and then Eli and Elizabeth offered their arms. When injected, both of them hesitated to move. Neither had ever taken such a massive dose of anything quite so potent as raw _memory—_

The flickers from the few they’d taken here hardly compared to how Eleanor _distilled_ it—

Their noses started to bleed. Jon braced Elizabeth’s shoulder as Booker and Annabelle came to them. As all the _possibilities_ opened to them. Like before, like in Columbia, but so _many_ jarring together, opening all at once. Not just her own doors, Booker’s doors, but all doors of all these samples—

Doors they’d created, doors they could create, doors they _would_ create—

Eli reached out, taking a hand from Eleanor and Elizabeth. They lit up like _stars—_

 

 

The field of lighthouses stretched before them. Billions of stars scattered to the dark sky.

Amir dropped his map, eyes going _up,_ mouth falling open. Eleanor mimicked him, stunned into stillness. Caper pulled her helm off, gaze wide. Even Sally was struck by the sight, rising slowly from the stone platform of a lighthouse as a host of them connected like a crossroads.

Elizabeth took a deep breath. “This is the Sea of Doors. This is where all possibilities meet. And…well, not just ours but…..everyones. All the samples of the Little Sisters. Thousands of people’s thousands upon thousands of doors.” 

“Where is everyone else?” Jack cast about, trying to tear his eyes away from the incredible sight. “I mean, we were in the Fontaine building with a crowd….how are we….”

“All these samples have allowed Elizabeth and me to open all possibilities for all of those people. They go to their own fields of Lighthouses,” Eli looked over the star-studded seascape. “All that’s left is the choosing.”

“Only they can choose where they should go,” Elizabeth added. “They likely won’t recall afterwards.”

“Why are we here together?” Eleanor asked, still gazing up in awe.

“Because we wanted to explain the choice,” Eli said softly. His eyes were far away, looking somewhere passed them, into the dark surface of the sea. “You all deserve that. You’ve all suffered. We’ve all suffered. This is our chance to offer a choice.”

Jon and Jack exchanged looks. 

“What do you mean?” Amir asked, starting to look alarmed. “Eli, are you guys okay? You seem…..off.”

“The choice,” Elizabeth echoed faintly. “You can choose to come with us or you may go to your own field of doors and make a choice.”

“Whatever your heart tells you to do,” Eli added. “Elizabeth and I want to create our own reality to recover in. But we won’t make anyone come with us.”

Belle looked up at Booker. _We can stay together? All of us?_

He tightened his grip on her shoulder. He nodded. 

Elizabeth and Eli turned to the staircase going into the water. It branched into the darkness and the two seemed to know what to do. They headed down the boardwalk, Eli with his broad shoulders and Elizabeth, slender and strong, dark shadows in the night. A door appeared, cresting the black water like a whale, scattering cold drops over all of them in a drizzling rain. The lighthouse clattered together. 

Eli and Elizabeth glanced at each other at the same time. They clasped their hands and opened the door.


End file.
